


The Favorite

by princesskay



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Angst, Breaking Up & Making Up, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Past Abuse, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-05-12 10:38:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 55,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19227484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princesskay/pseuds/princesskay
Summary: Eight months after Philippe took Chevalier as his principal favorite, a guest arrives at the palace, bringing with him dark truths about the Chevalier's past that threaten the life he has created for himself with Philippe.(In the same vein as Something Dangerous, but it took on a life of its own. Updates coming weekly!)**This story is now complete. The final update includes chapters 10 & 11





	1. The Hunt

Chevalier could feel the thunder of hooves and the incessant howl of the hounds before the hunting party emerged from the woods. At the front of the group, Louis and Philippe rode side-by-side on matching white steeds with rifles slung over their shoulders. Farther behind, servants labored under the weight of their kill - a massive buck whose pronged antlers nearly dragged the ground with their length. 

A slight breeze carried the scent of gunpowder and the slain kill across the yard. The mid-April air was chilly in an invigorating sort of way. Spring had sprung, bringing with it a restlessness that had driven their King and his court far from the crowded and stifling streets of Paris to this retreat in the woods. They had gone hunting each morning since their arrival, returning at dusk rosy-cheeked and exhilarated from the woods. 

Chevalier had little interest in hunting.  While Philippe bounded out of bed every morning at the break of dawn, Chevalier lingered behind in the satin sheets, slumbering well until noon when the party would return for a break and a bite to eat. 

Hunting was a nobleman’s hobby that his father had attempted to teach him, but Chevalier had never been interested in killing living things. Yet, despite his disapproval of the hunt, he couldn’t deny that the sex they had when Philippe returned was especially good. Perhaps it was the fresh air and excitement, the freedom from the dim and ancient clutches of the palace back in Paris. 

He had to admit, he felt safer and more relaxed here, too.  

Chevalier set his eyes on Philippe from his position on the front lawn of the lodge.

Philippe conversed with Louis, his mouth widening in a smile. From across the yard, Chevalier could see his eyes were sparkling. They darted across the lawn for half a second, catching Chevalier’s gaze. He spoke to Louis a moment longer before swinging his leg over the saddle and pouncing to the ground. He handed the rifle off to one of the musketeers, and strode across the grass. 

When he reached Chevalier, he caught him by the waist, and pressed a kiss to Chevalier’s waiting lips. His lips were raw and chilled by the wind, but the press of his tongue was warm and smooth like velvet. He pulled back, breathing heavily through his nostrils. 

“You smell like the woods.” Chevalier murmured, stroking his thumb across Philippe’s cheek.  “And dirt, like some feral, naughty creature.” 

Philippe’s tongue darted against his lower lip. “I suppose I should get cleaned up.” 

“I’ll come with you.” 

Chevalier looped his arm through Philippe’s, and they walked across the lawn together toward the chateau. Feeling a pair of eyes on him, he flicked a gaze over his shoulder to see Louis walking several paces behind them. His expression was neutral, but his sharp, blue eyes watched Chevalier like a hawk prepared to spring for the kill. 

Chevalier quickly averted gaze. He had to remind himself that he was safely within Philippe’s circle, and that no harm would come to him if he remained in the prince’s favor. For now, favor was securely with him. Even the king couldn’t touch him. That should have filled him with a sense of invincibility, but the spike of nausea in his stomach said otherwise. 

Favor was a thing that could twist in the wind should a foul breeze strike. If Philippe ever tired of him, Chevalier would surely be at the king’s mercy; it was clear to him that Louis would not stay his hand should that day ever come. 

Chevalier tightened his grip around Philippe’s bicep, and leaned closer to whisper, “Your brother is  _ staring  _ at us.” 

“Let him stare.” Philippe replied, hardly attempting to keep his voice down. 

“I don’t think he fancies me much.” 

“Louis has never fancied any of my lovers. But to his chagrin, he has no say over who I fuck.” Philippe replied, casting Chevalier a cool smile. 

Chevalier gave one last look over his shoulder as they entered the chateau, and he and Philippe’s path toward the bedroom split off from Louis’. Louis managed a momentary glare just as they disappeared around the corner. 

“He hates me, actually.” Chevalier said. “No bother. I don’t care for him either.” 

“Careful. He’s still the king.” Philippe warned, tugging on his arm. 

“And you’re the prince.” Chevalier said, pulling Philippe to a stop in front of his bedroom door. “And you care for me quite a lot, don’t you?” 

Philippe’s brows furrowed slightly as his pale blue eyes wandered intensively over Chevalier’s hopeful expression. He reached up to clutch Chevalier’s cheeks. 

“What are you on about?” He whispered. 

“What do you mean?” Chevalier asked, forcing a chuckle. “You know how I love affirmation. I just want to hear you say it.” 

“All right, then. Yes.” Philippe said, leaning in closer. “I do care for you. Very much. Of that, you can be sure.” 

The tightness in his chest eased as Philippe leaned in to press a kiss to his mouth. Philippe’s mouth lingered for a long, sweet moment before he pulled back. 

Chevalier drew in a shaky breath, his knees suddenly feeling weak and improbable of holding his weight. 

Philippe swung the door open, and marched inside, calling for one of the domestics to draw him a bath. 

Chevalier leaned against the windowsill while two maids brought in heated buckets of water and filled a tub in the center of the room. Philippe dismissed them as soon as the tub was full. 

He stripped down, and stepped into the water. his long, black hair spilled across his shoulders and down his back, giving way to the delicious little dip of his spine, and finally, the two round swells of his ass cheeks. Chevalier pursed his mouth over pleased moan as the day’s machinations of need came to a delightfully painful head. 

He was enjoying the view, but he couldn’t quite shake the sense of  insecurity Louis had rattled to life within him. His mind wandered back to this time last year when he’d not yet met the Duc d’Orleans, when he was far from court life, and the arms of a skilled and gentle lover. 

Nearly eight months had passed since he had introduced himself at Louis’ birthday party, and subsequently introduced himself into Philippe’s bed. The seduction had been swift; despite his status as the king’s brother, Philippe was an alarmingly easy target. Perhaps it was his royalty that made him so willing to trust. He knew little of the dangers of the world beyond Paris, let alone outside the walls of the Palais-Royal. He didn’t know what strange men could do to him. He didn’t know what Chevalier had gone through to get himself to this point -  inside the King’s brother’s inner circle - because he had been born into this life of privilege. But if Chevalier had it his way, Philippe would never have to know. 

“Next time,” Philippe said, sighing aloud as he situated himself in the tub, “you should ride along with us.” 

Chevalier chuckled. “Please, dear, you know I do not have the aptitude for hunting, nor the fortitude for the sight of blood - even if it isn’t human.” 

“I didn’t say you had to kill anything.” 

“I see.” Chevalier said, pushing away from the window and approaching the tub. “You simply want me to witness  _ you _ killing something.” 

“You would have been proud. It was I who fired the shot, not Louis. This buck had four more prongs than the one he took down yesterday.” 

Chevalier gathered Philippe’s damp curls away from his neck, and bent to impart a soft kiss below his ear. Philippe shuddered, and tilted his chin back to accommodate. 

“So, it’s the prongs you are interested in.” Chevalier whispered.

Philippe laughed quietly, and let his head fall back against the rim of the tub. Chevalier gazed down at him, stroking his fingertips along his pale throat. 

“My dear Lorraine, you have such a way with words.” 

Chevalier bent to press a kiss to Philippe’s mouth, and muffled a groan into the plush swell of his lower lip. “Don’t make me wait.” He rasped. “I’ve been thinking of you all day.” 

He drew back, resting his forehead against Philippe’s chin. Heat coiled lower in his belly as Philippe shifted in the water, his nipples breaching the surface. His hand slipped from the edge of the tub, and disappeared below the water where the ripples suggested just where it was headed. 

Chevalier straightened, and circled the tub. “Come now, get out. Don’t torture me.” 

Philippe’s mouth compressed over a little moan. His hand moved beneath the water. “You’re so impatient.” 

“Then, I shall get in with you.” Chevalier replied, reaching up to tug at the buttons of his vest. 

“All right.” Philippe said, chuckling. He rose to his feet suddenly, causing water to slosh against the lip of the tub. Water sluiced down his slender frame, highlighting every dip and curve in the glistening of the yellow sun through the window. His cock stood hard and pink against the white of his skin, just begging to touched and caressed. 

Chevalier hurried out of his vest and shirt as Philippe stepped out of the tub and walked toward him, hips swinging just enough to make his cock rock back and forth. Just as the shirt cleared his wrists, their bodies collided, and Philippe pressed his mouth hard to Chevalier’s. They stumbled back until they reached the bed, and they fell to the sheets, panting, kissing, and stroking. 

Philippe’s hips careened against Chevalier’s, rubbing his hard, wet cock into the expensive fabric of Chevalier’s trousers. The water seeped through the material, outlining the swollen shape of Chevalier’s cock. He reached down to tug at the buttons, eager to feel Philippe’s skin on his own. 

Philippe reached down to assist him, his fingers being the first to drag Chevalier’s cock from within the confines of his breeches. 

“Oh, fuck.” Chevalier moaned as Philippe’s fingers stroked delicately over him. “Yes …” 

Philippe’s mouth tore away from his, and he was between Chevalier’s legs in the space of seconds, his mouth sucking down on his dick like it was a fine dessert. 

“God, yes!” Chevalier cried, his fingers tangling through Philippe’s hair. “Oh, mignonnet, this is what I was thinking about … alone, here, without you …”

Philippe hummed around a mouthful of his cock. One hand reached up to feel along Chevalier’s belly and chest until his fingers located the soft peak of his nipple. 

Chevalier bit back a moan as the pleasure surged at him, threatening to send him buckling under in a matter of moments. That is what Philippe did to him. One stray, dirty thought could lodge into him like a pebble in his shoe, pestering him all day long until they were finally alone; at last, the hard-earned pleasure would come, too quickly, as if his body were tripping over itself to reach the explosive end that had culminated since the inception of that single, hungry image that had sprung up over breakfast. He felt like a child again, his body unraveling at the slightest touch, aroused by the strangest, most innocuous things, entranced by the simple work of fingers against his nipples. 

Philippe wrung it from him, sucking and licking until Chevalier shuddered and moaned and his hips bucked wildly against Philippe’s face. Philippe swallowed down his release as if he were starving for it, his tongue lapping at the remnants even as Chevalier went limp. 

“God in heaven …” Chevalier whispered, staring at the ceiling where little lights still blinked and sparked behind his eyelids. “You’re merciless.” 

“You begged me not to make you wait.” Philippe pointed out. 

“Yes, true.” Chevalier said, lifted his head from the pillows. “But, I promise you, later tonight I will fuck you properly. I want you thinking of me and my cock pounding you when you try to go riding tomorrow.” 

Philippe crawled up to press a hard kiss to his mouth. “And I shall enjoy every moment of that agony.” 

 

~

 

That evening at dinner, Chevalier nursed his second glass of wine before the food had even been served. Louis was making some dull, egocentric speech about the glories of hunting here at Versailles, their father’s favored lodge. 

He leaned over to whisper in Philippe’s ear. “We’ll all be starving to death by the time he finally shuts his mouth.” 

Philippe’s mouth compressed against laughter. 

Louis cleared his throat, and cut a gaze to their side of the table. Straightening his shoulders, Chevalier arranged a charming smile in response. 

“And now,” Louis continued, “It is with a heavy heart, but a sense of duty that I announce tomorrow will be our final day here at Versailles - at least for now. We must return to Paris the day thereafter to attend to matters of the state - a most welcome guest who you will all meet on our return. He brings tidings from India.” 

Louis raised his wineglass to indicate a toast, and everyone at the table followed in unison. 

“To the success of tomorrow’s hunt.” 

“Tomorrow’s hunt.” The group chorused. 

There was a brief moment of silence while they all drank the toast before Louis waved a hand at the servants who waited with the plates. 

As the food was brought out, and served onto the sparkling china, Chevalier leaned closer to Philippe. 

“Who do you imagine the guest is?” He asked. 

“I don’t know.” Philippe replied. “Louis doesn’t involve me in matters of the state, if you’ll recall.” 

“Someone from India, he said.” 

“Someone with trade routes, I’d imagine.” 

“He must be someone of great importance to earn the king’s ear, and perhaps his partnership.” 

“Yes, I would imagine.” Philippe acquiesced, “Why do you care?” 

Chevalier cleared his throat. “I don’t. It’s just court gossip, that’s all. I’m sure he’ll be the talk of the salons once he arrives - whoever he is.” 

“Don’t worry,” Philippe said, casting him a smile. “I’m sure your position as chief topic of gossip in the salon will not be threatened by whoever this man may be.” 

Chevalier managed a chuckle. “I don’t know anyone who could.” 

 

~

 

Two days later, the entourage returned to Palais-Royal to find the halls scrubbed, the furniture polished, and the windows thrown open to clear the air with the sweet, spring breeze. Preparations were fully underway to accept a notable guest. The buzz of the salons was the topic of that guest, though no one seemed to know exactly who he was. Louis had announced that this person might help them with their trade relations in India, but had given no clue as to the identity of the man. 

Chevalier damned himself for not paying better attention to the foreign policies of trade. Names swirled through the salon, but he recognized few of them. 

Four days after their return from Versailles, it was a mildly warm, lazy afternoon, but Philippe was bounding with energy. He suggested they go out onto the lawn and try their hand at a few rounds of fencing. He practically dragged Chevalier outdoors, the latter complaining all the way. 

“Look at the sky, Philippe.” Chevalier protested. “I could lie on the grass for hours. We could look at the clouds, read a book …” 

“Yes, the sky is quite blue today.” Philippe agreed, not looking back as he marched across the lush green of the grass with his sword in hand. 

“You know I am not the swordsman you are.” Chevalier said, handling his own sword with less acuity. 

Philippe turned with a mischievous smile “That’s debatable.” 

“Well, perhaps in the bedroom.” Chevalier said, returning the smile despite his annoyance. “You should fence one of the your musketeers. I’m sure they’re up to it.” 

“I want to fence with you.” Philippe said, drawing his sword and pointing it at Chevalier’s chest. “Now, put up your weapon. You look foolish standing there with it pointed at the ground.” 

Chevalier let out a sigh, but unsheathed the weapon. “Your wish is my command, Highness.” 

The sound of metal upon metal rang through the air as they crossed swords. Philippe allowed Chevalier to lead in with the first strike, but once he had deflected the blow, he rushed in with a series of blows that devastated Chevalier’s defenses. His strikes were sluggish and unweildy whereas Philippe’s were swift and practiced. It was a matter of moments before Chevalier’s sword flew from his hand, and Philippe had him on the ground, sword pressed gently to his throat. 

“You’re dead, sir.” Philippe said, smiling triumphantly from above him. 

“I’m no match for your prowess, mignonnet.” 

Philippe withdrew the sword from Chevalier’s neck, and strode a few paces away. “Again.” He announced. 

“Philippe-”

“Come now, don’t tell me your feelings are hurt.” Philippe said, nudging Chevalier’s fallen sword with the toe of his shoe. “Get up.” 

Chevalier grabbed the sword, and clambered to his feet. He didn’t particularly enjoy being beaten time and again, but experience had taught him not to argue with Philippe’s more trifling wishes.  Philippe was as prone to bouts of brooding and complaint as well as a child half his age, and Chevalier would rather avoid those moments if the only sacrifice was a bit of pride. 

They met swords again, and this time, Chevalier tried harder to anticipate Philippe’s footwork. He was doing quite well when Philippe swung from overhead, and Chevalier barely put his sword up in time to block it just above his head. Philippe leveraged his weight, and Chevalier’s knee buckled, then twisted. Falling to the dirt on his knees, he felt the sword slip from his fingers. Philippe pressed up behind him, holding his own sword taut beneath his chin. 

“Dead, yet again.” He whispered, his breath hot and ragged with exertion in Chevalier’s ear. 

“You’re enjoying this.” Chevalier replied. “Do you like seeing me on my knees?” 

“Quite.” Philippe murmured. 

He dropped his sword to the grass, and circled around to stand over Chevalier. His fingers caught Chevalier’s chin, lifting his head in perfect angle with his crotch. His thumb dragged across Chevalier’s temple, and cheekbone until it reached his lower lip, pressing just past the edge of his teeth. 

“Yes, I was born for this.” Philippe said, his voice raspy from the fight. “And you, for this …” 

Chevalier swallowed hard as Philippe bent to kiss the corner of his mouth. Though they were alone on the lawn, surrounded by trees, there remained the sense that anyone could come upon them at any time. Philippe’s whisper only enhanced that sense of danger. 

“On your knees, in front of me, hungry for my cock …  _ begging _ for it.” 

Heat churned in his belly, and parted ways, some racing for his cock, the other for his cheeks. He couldn’t pin down the reason why this particular scenario left him feeling humiliated rather than aroused, protective of his pride rather than eager to please, yet he felt the first sparks of anger coming to life in his chest as Philippe pulled back to gaze on him with a pleased smile. 

“You silly, little girl.” Chevalier whispered, his voice trembling. “If that is the fantasy you wish to pursue, then so be it - but it is a fantasy nonetheless.” 

Philippe’s brow furrowed at the tempestuous tone in Chevalier’s voice. 

“Does this swordplay make you feel like a man?” Chevalier pressed, rising slowly to his feet. 

Philippe’s mouth softened into a quiet shape of disbelief, and his eyes widened. He took a step back as Chevalier straightened, and reached out to clutch his jaw. 

“We both know you prefer dresses.” Chevalier said, dragging his thumb across Philippe’s mouth. “And the sting of my hand on your backside.” 

Philippe tugged his chin free, and slapped Chevalier’s wrist away with a harsh swing of his palm. 

“You forget yourself.” He said, his brows furling in anger. “You forget who you’re speaking to.” 

Chevalier dropped his head. Shame was quick to consume the sudden bout of vicious anger that had bolstered him to speak. The regret came next, filling his belly with heavy nausea, like a stone dropping. 

“Forgive me.” He whispered. 

“What’s gotten into you?” Philippe demanded. “It was a bit of fun.” 

“Nothing. Forget I said it.”  

Chevalier bent to pick up his sword, and took off across the grass toward the palace at a determined stride. He heard Philippe say his name, but he continued walking until he reached the edge of the treeline, where the grass ended and the long, stone path leading up to the front of the palace began. Here, he halted, his gaze drawn by the sound of hooves and carriage wheels turning over rock. Squinting against the sun, he saw a magnificent carriage trimmed with sleek, dark wood and golden fixtures, riding up the path toward the palace. It was drawn by a team of white horses, and surrounded by armed Musketeers. 

Chevalier stood transfixed in his place as the carriage sped past him with a clatter of horseshoes and the groan of wheels. The ground seemed to thunder with it, as if the presence of the man inside could split the earth. And, for a moment, as the carriage went by and Chevalier glimpsed who it was that was inside, the hands of time ground to a stop. It was only a second, but he would recognize that face anywhere. A face which haunts ones nightmares is not quick to fade away, even with the swift passage of time. 

Suddenly, the carriage was past him, and Chevalier was standing on the grass with the sword clutched in a white-knuckled grip. His lungs felt pinched as he struggled to draw in a proper breath. 

Having caught up to him, Philippe paused at the edge of the path beside him. 

“I’m assuming that was our welcome guest.” He said. 

“Yes.” Chevalier whispered. 

“We should get inside and clean up.” Philippe said. “I’m sure Louis will want us there to properly receive him.” 

“You go on ahead.” Chevalier said. “I need to catch my breath. I’m not used to this type of exercise, you know.” 

Despite his cavalier tone, Philippe frowned suspiciously. “Are you all right?” 

“Fine.” Chevalier said, managing a smile. 

“All right. But don’t dally. Louis will have your ass if you show up late.”  

Philippe strode toward the palace, casting one last glance over his shoulder at Chevalier. Chevalier forced a smile onto his face, and bent to clutch his knees as if to catch his breath. 

He remained crouched there for several long minutes, listening to the breeze rustle through the tree branches, and the birds sing cheerily overhead. He could feel the sweat drying between his shoulder blades, and turning to an itchy plaster. Even as he tried to breathe deeply and collect himself, the panic roiling through his belly raged like an untamable beast. 

_ Self-control equals self-respect.  _ His father used to tell him.  _ If you cannot conduct yourself in the form of a nobleman, you will not be revered in the court’s eyes.  _

He’d never taken his father’s advice into consideration. Excess and opulence were the principals he had lived by for as long as he could recall, but right now he could do with a bit of self-control. If only he could control the panicked flutter of his heart, perhaps he could control all the bloated, festering consequences of the past that the new palace guest was bringing with him. 


	2. The Guest

The council was the first to receive the guest, indicating that he was indeed related to matters of the state, either finance or war. Louis had mentioned India, leading Philippe to believe it was the first. 

He lingered in the hall, staring down the guards who stood watch at the doors of the council chambers. 

Every year that Louis did not invite him to be a part of the council ripped wider the gap forming between them. As children, they had been close despite their mother’s and the council’s attempts to keep them apart. As adults, Louis had departed from their childish fantasies of what brotherhood meant, and plunged into ruling the way he had been taught: without mercy, without consideration for others’ opinions, especially if they differed from his own. The companionship they’d shared in the woods of Versailles only days ago was already forgotten. 

Philippe waited outside the council chambers for an hour and a half before the doors opened. Colbert, Louvois, and the other council members exited ahead of their mother, Queen Anne. She was quickly escorted down the hall and away from Philippe by her servants. She’d been in poor health recently, and the conversation appeared to have taxed her. 

Louis and a man perhaps ten years their senior, dressed in a blue coat with gold piping, were the last to leave the council chambers. The clothing suggested a man of status and wealth, as did his air of authority with Louis. They conversed as they walked as comrades do. 

As they passed Philippe, the man acknowledged him with a nod. He had a strong, intimidating face with angular cheekbones and a stout jawline. His skin was swarthy, though not foreign, as if weathered from hours beneath the sun. His dark, narrow eyes, surrounded by a web of wary crows feet, seemed to assess and disregard Philippe in turn. 

No sooner had they passed him than did Louis halt his determined stride. The man stopped, and turned slowly as Louis announced, “And this is my brother, Philippe Duc d’Orleans.” 

The man arranged a warm smile on his mouth. “Monsieur.” 

“Philippe, this is the Vicomte de LaFayette. He’s here to negotiate trade relations between us and India.” 

“Vicomte,” Philippe said, “A pleasure to finally meet you. The entire palace has been abuzz trying to decipher your identity. His Majesty left us somewhat in the dark to his plans.” 

“I asked him to make it so.” The Vicomte replied, “Relations, as you are aware, are tender with India. It must be handled with utmost care.” 

“Of course.” 

“The suspense is over, however,” Louis said, “and we will be hosting a party tonight in the Vicomte’s honor. I trust I will see you there.” 

“Yes, of course.” Philippe said. 

Louis waved for one of the guards. “Show the Vicomte to his rooms.” 

“Yes, your Majesty.” The guard said. He turned to the Vicomte, and nodded for the man to follow. “This way, Monsieur.” 

The Vicomte followed the guard down the hallway, leaving Louis and Philippe alone. 

“I trust you will be there.” Louis repeated. “And that you will keep your pet, the Chevalier, in line.” 

“He knows the etiquette, Louis.” Philippe said, “You mustn’t always treat him like a child.” 

“We’ve had this conversation. He’s below you.” 

“He is of noble blood, and that is all that matters.” 

“His single saving grace.” Louis said, procuring a thin smile. He turned on his heel, and marched down the hall. His guards surrounded him, taking him out of Philippe’s sight. 

 

~

 

Louis had arranged for the best dishes and entertainment to be brought in for that night’s festivities. The wine was flowing freely, rousing an atmosphere of joviality through the hall. 

Philippe slouched at his place at the table, turning his half-empty wine glass between his fingers by the stem. 

Louis was seated farther down the table, flanked on the left by the Vicomte de LaFayette, and on the right by Queen Marie-Therese and Princess Henriette. Louis and the Vicomte appeared to be in deep conversation. He leaned close to Louis, speaking with a look of intense focus that comes with negotiation. 

“What’s the matter with you?” Chevalier asked, nudging his elbow. “This is a party. You’re scowling.” 

“I want to know what they’re saying.”Philippe said, keeping his gaze fixed on Louis and the Vicomte.

“Probably a lot of boring things about commerce and trade relations.” Chevalier said, releasing a flippant sigh. “We should dance.” 

“I’m not as useless as he thinks.” Philippe said, ignoring Chevalier’s proposal. “If he would just let me past the door, he would see.” 

The Vicomte’s gaze flicked towards their end of the table, his dark eyes locating Philippe and the Chevalier from the among the sea of faces. The stare lingered even as Louis spoke to him, remaining blank and unblinking for a long moment before a thin smile crept to his mouth.

Philippe quickly averted his gaze. Something about the man made his skin crawl. 

“He looks a bit dead in the eyes, don’t you think?” Philippe said. 

When Chevalier didn’t promptly agree, Philippe cast him a frown. Chevalier was peering down the table in the direction of the Vicomte, his mouth half-parted, his eyes wide and glossy. Philippe’s gaze pivoted back in the Vicomte’s direction, realizing now that the man was looking straight past him to Chevalier. 

“Lorraine.” Philippe said, reaching over to nudge his arm. 

Chevalier startled, his cheeks blossoming pink as if he’d been caught doing something untoward. “What?” 

“Have you met before?” Philippe asked, glancing back at LaFayette. 

“What?” 

“You and LaFayette. Do you know him?” 

“What? No.” Chevalier said, chuckling coarsely. “Talk in the salon is he’s barely stepped foot on French soil in the last ten years.” 

“He was staring at you.” Philippe said. 

“At us.” Chevalier said, smiling. “Perhaps he’s as intrigued as the rest of the court as to why the king’s brother prefers men.” 

Philippe leaned back in his chair, huffing a sigh. “Yes, it just wouldn’t do to have a homosexual on the king’s council. That’s why he would never allow it.” 

“Please, mignonnet,” Chevalier said, lacing his fingers through Philippe’s. “There’s other things in life besides the council. I can think of several things that are better than putting up with Louis every day for three hours. Chiefly among them, fine silk, dresses, perfumes, chocolates, a summer’s breeze …  _ me _ .” 

Philippe chuckled despite the frustration coiled in his chest. 

“Come now.” Chevalier said, tugging on his fingers. “Dance with me.” 

“Fine.” Philippe said. 

He allowed himself to be dragged away from the table, and onto the dancefloor where the musicians had just started a sweeping waltz. 

Chevalier’s arm curled around his waist, leading him into the steps with accomplished ease. Philippe turned his face into his lover’s neck as the dance floor seemed to spin beneath them, the two of them fixed at its epicenter. 

He put the Vicomte from his mind, and thought of nothing but the smell of Chevalier’s skin, the taste of his lips, and the promise of the evening to come. 

He didn’t think of their little row out on the lawn. It was a passing storm, rather more of a rainshower. They came and went with the breeze when one was entangled with a free spirit like the Chevalier. Their relationship was in its infancy, and growing pains were sure to come. The disagreement and casually thrown words were nothing more. 

 

~

 

Chevalier clung to Philippe as they danced. With every turn, he caught a glimpse of the table where Louis and the Vicomte were conversing. Philippe was already suitably disenchanted with the night’s celebration, and he hoped that a few turns about the dancefloor would have him ready to return to their rooms in no time. 

Usually not one to flee from a party, Chevalier would have to tread lightly to not arouse Philippe’s suspicions. He’d already had to lie once tonight, and he’d rather not have to again. He was no financier, nor politician. He had no idea how long these negotiations might take, or how long the Vicomte would remain at the palace. He could only hope that he could keep up his charade of careless frivolity until the deal was secure, and that infernal man was gone once more from their lives. 

After their third consecutive dance, Philippe tugged Chevalier to a halt at the center of the dancefloor. 

“I’m tired.” He said, “We should sit.” 

“Perhaps an early night is in order.” Chevalier suggested as they walked arm-in-arm back to the table. 

“You? Retiring early from a party?” 

“I only say it for your sake, mignonnet.” Chevalier said, smiling gently. 

He snatched two wine glasses from a passing waiter, and extended one to Philippe. He’d kept count, and this would be Philippe’s third glass for the night - just enough to make him properly malleable in Chevalier’s hands. 

Philippe accepted the glass without hesitation, and took a drink. 

“This party is rather a bore.” Philippe said, his nose wrinkling with distaste.

“Yes, and think how much more fun you and I could be having together, alone.” Chevalier said, grazing his knuckles down Philippe’s cheek.

His gaze shifted over Philippe’s shoulder as LaFayette rose from his chair, and began to walk towards them. His heartbeat bolted into a sickening race that swiftly brought perspiration to his palms. 

Grabbing Philippe by the arm, he tugged his half-drunk prince toward the exit. “Wouldn’t you agree?” He pressed. 

“I think you’re just in a hurry to fuck me.” Philippe murmured, a sly smiling curling his mouth. 

“Perhaps.” Chevalier said, casting a harried glance over his shoulder. 

The Vicomte loomed behind them, his long strides rapidly closing the space between them. Their gazes connected, and Chevalier felt a cold shiver run down his spine, as if the hand of fate and misfortune had caressed him. 

“Monsieur.” The Vicomte said. 

Philippe stopped and turned, pulling Chevalier with him. 

“Vicomte.” He said, regarding the man with a curious gaze. 

“I feel we did not get a proper introduction earlier.” LaFayette said. “It was so brief.” 

“Yes, it was.” Philippe agreed. “My brother has left me rather curious about your intention here at the palace.” 

“It is a negotiation, as he said.” LaFayette replied. “Over the years, I have procured relationships of trust between myself and key members of the king’s council in India.  They asked me to come here and speak with Louis, on their behalf.” 

“They do not wish to come on their own behalf?” Philippe asked. 

“They thought it best to send a fellow Frenchman, and a friendly face.” 

“I cannot speak to its friendliness.” Philippe said, “Have you been away from France for very long?” 

“I come and go.” LaFayette said, smiling warmly despite Philippe’s probing. “But France will always be my home.” 

“Talk in the salon is you haven’t set foot on French soil in nearly ten years.” Philippe countered. 

“Talk in the salon.” LaFayette echoed, chuckling. “You can’t always trust it, can you?” 

His gaze crept to Chevalier, who clung to Philippe’s elbow, silently praying the conversation soon cease so that they could return to Philippe’s rooms. 

Philippe could read a man well; the Vicomte did have dead eyes, and they were burning into him even as he and Philippe spoke. That observation was not to say that they were lifeless, because they did hold a spark of something; it was to say that they were cold and dark and they held little compassion. They penetrated him now with the same cutting precision he recalled, the same silent power that could bring a person to their knees in front of him, begging for mercy. 

“I have a mind as to where these rumors originate.” LaFayette said, his smile turning frosty as his gaze perused Chevalier from head to toe.  “I don’t believe we’ve had a proper introduction.”

“Ah, yes.” Philippe said, tugging Chevalier forward. “Vicomte de LaFayette, this is the Chevalier de Lorraine.” 

“A pleasure, truly.” The Vicomte said, seizing Chevalier’s hand in his own. He bent to place a soft kiss on his knuckles, as if Chevalier were some fainting woman in the salon, dazzled by his wealth and power. 

Chevalier retrieved his hand the moment LaFayette’s fingers released him. 

“And the same to you.” He whispered, struggling to maintain a neutral expression. 

Philippe gazed between them skeptically for a moment before he cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Vicomte, but I’m feeling unwell tonight. I was just on my way to retire to my rooms.” 

“A pity.” LaFayette said. “The King has put on a wonderful show in my honor.” 

“Yes, it is, but we spent a great deal of time outdoors the week past and I think I’ve caught the cold air.” Philippe said, “Excuse us.” 

Chevalier let out a wavering breath as Philippe led them toward the door. 

They walked silently to Philippe’s rooms, the hollow ring of their heels striking the stone floor echoing down the halls in their wake. Chevalier could feel the ripple of tension pulsing between them, like the crackle of lightning before a storm. Philippe’s strides were long and resolute, and his chin was held high and rigid.

The sweat that had gathered on his palms when he saw LaFayette walk toward them now worked its way beneath the silk of his shirt. His collar and cravat felt more like a noose than a fashionable accessory. He thought momentarily of bidding Philippe goodnight and escaping the disagreement that was sure to come, but he knew it would only delay the inevitable. 

When they reached the room, Philippe opened the door, and stood back to let Chevalier in before him. 

Entering the room, he cast a discreet glance over his shoulder. Philippe’s gaze tilted downward as he followed Chevalier inside. His jaw unclenched to allow a slow, steady breath from his lips. He leaned into the door to close it as Chevalier wandered to the open window. 

They had left the panes open, allowing the warm, spring breeze to float in, carrying with it a sense of calm that Chevalier struggled to grasp. 

“He’s a strange fellow.” Philippe said. 

Chevalier cleared his throat, and focused on undoing the row of buttons down the front of his vest. “Yes.” 

“Kissing your hand like that.” Philippe said. “It’s not proper etiquette between two men at court.” 

_ Neither is a man wearing a dress.  _ Chevalier thought, but quickly buttoned his lips over that response that was certain to only make things worse. 

He cleared his throat, and manufactured a nonchalant tone. “Perhaps he prefers men as well.” 

Philippe’s shoe scuffed against the floor, drawing Chevalier’s gaze from the window. His shoulders tightened as Philippe slowly crossed the room, his hands clasped behind his back. His mouth pursed thoughtfully when he reached Chevalier. Gradually, one hand slithered from behind his back to rest heavily on Chevalier’s hip. 

“Do you think that?” Philippe asked, quietly. “Or do you  _ know  _ it?” 

Chevalier swallowed hard, and closed his eyes briefly. His fingers curled around the lapels of his vest, gripping the lacy fabric until he could feel the embroidery tracing itself into his skin. 

“Lorraine.” Philippe said, his tone rising to irritated command. He pulled Chevalier around, and pressed him against the wall with a jolt. “I asked you once, I will not ask you again. Do you know that man?” 

Chevalier opened his eyes to find Philippe’s face inches from his own, his eyes on fire with jealous rage. In another situation, that look may have been enough to dislodge the truth briskly from his lips, but tonight, something stronger and more potent drove him to silence. The fear that Philippe might be displeased with him for perhaps a week was trivial in comparison to the fear that Philippe might discover the truth. 

“No.” He whispered. 

His eyes slammed shut when Philippe slapped him, spreading a wave of tingling pain across his cheek. 

“Don’t lie to me again.” Philippe hissed, shaking him by the shoulders. “I saw that look in his eyes. That is not the look of a stranger!” 

“Yes, it must be, because I have never met him before this week!” Chevalier retorted, pressing his palm over his throbbing cheek. “Perhaps he is a pervert, intent in fucking me, and you are in jealous hysterics.” 

Philippe raised his hand again, but when Chevalier did not flinch, he quickly let it drop. 

He heaved out a sigh, a scowl marring his brow. “I’m going to bed.” 

“Shall I come with you?” Chevalier whispered, his heart clenching with trepidation. 

Philippe paused at the edge of the bed to discard his clothes. There was a brief pause before he ducked his head. “Yes.” 

 

~

 

The next morning, Chevalier woke to the morning sun pouring through the open window and the sound of the birds trilling their daybreak song. The gentle caress of Philippe’s hands on him had lured him from sleep. Despite the dull ache gripping his head from too much wine the night before, he felt the first sparks of pleasure igniting low in his belly. 

Philippe’s palm traversed the swell of his hip, and dove down to locate the dusting of curly hair leading down his belly to where arousal was swelling him. 

Chevalier’s mouth parted in quiet whimper of pleasure. Philippe pressed up behind him, his own cock hard and rigid against his spine. He scattered kisses down Chevalier’s shoulder and neck, where he paused to nuzzle below his ear. 

“I’m sorry I hit you.” He whispered. “I was drunk, and stupid.” 

Chevalier bit at his lower lip as Philippe’s palm pushed its way down the length of his hardening cock and his deft fingers fondled his softly pulsing balls. Pushing the sheets away, Chevalier opened his legs to the gradual caress that worked its way towards his hole. 

“I don’t care.” He muttered, drunk anew, this time with need. “Fuck me.” 

Philippe pushed him face down on the sheets, and quickly located the small bottle of oil they kept at the ready beside the bed. His slick fingers were soon pushing into Chevalier, oiling him inside and out, and coaxing taut muscles open to his caress. 

“Oh, Jesus Christ …” Chevalier moaned as Philippe’s fingers pressed just right, sending thrills of pleasure through his whole body. “Hurry …”

Philippe’s fingers departed, leaving him void for only moments before he replaced them with the hot, blunt press of his cock. 

Chevalier tucked his knees under himself, and leaned back into the dull pressure slowly working its way to his depths. He reached up to grasp the headboard, bracing himself as Philippe’s hips slapped firmly against his backside. 

“Oh my God …” He moaned, his back arching at the sensation of fullness that pulsed through him. 

Philippe grasped his hips, holding him in position, as he began to rock in and out. 

Chevalier’s body pulsed with need, bringing him fully awake with every spasm and thrust. He eyes opened to watch his fingers flex around the metal bar of the bed frame, his knuckles turning white against the force of Philippe’s thrusts. 

He was often the one leading the seduction, taking Philippe’s willing body and molding it to his will, and then fucking him raw until he was wet, whimpering mess. In the wake of last night’s argument, he welcomed Philippe’s eagerness to take charge; it meant that nothing had changed between them, that he wasn’t angry, that he meant to keep Chevalier by his side. 

Besides, he didn’t mind being well-fucked, especially when his mind needed a diversion. He closed his eyes and let the sensations take him away to a utopia of pleasure and release, far away from the prying eyes and ill-intent of the Vicomte de LaFayette.


	3. The Villa

The following week of negotiations kept Louis, Queen Anne, LaFayette, and the rest of the council behind closed doors and away from Philippe and Chevalier. Rumors flew about the salon, but none of them could be backed up by facts. Louis was set on keeping the talks a secret, and he had ordered a moratorium on the subject to all involved. 

Philippe waited outside the council doors each day, hoping to catch some scrap of conversation, but nothing ever came of his efforts. Louis had effectively shut him out. 

After five days of intense negotiations, the council seemed to take a break. They had their usual meeting with the king and queen, but LaFayette was free to roam the palace and gardens. That evening, Philippe found Louis taking a walk through the orchard as the sun went down. 

“Brother.” Louis greeted him as they crossed paths among the branches heavy with fresh blossoms. 

The guards hung back as Louis motioned for Philippe to join him. 

“How are negotiations?” Philippe asked. 

“And a good evening to you as well.” Louis said, dryly, casting Philippe a sly smile. 

“You know very well I’m eager to know what’s been said by the Vicomte.” Philippe said, “Why don’t we skip pleasantries and go straight to the heart of the matter.” 

“Very well.” Louis said, “We are awaiting word from India. It could be several days.” 

“So, you’ve made a proposal?” 

“Mm.” Louis muttered, pausing to catch one of the blossoms from a low-hanging branch between his fingers. He took a whiff of the flower. “We must wait patiently now.” 

“And in the meantime? What of the Vicomte?” 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Louis said. “He is our guest, not a prisoner.” 

“He’s not exactly a friend, either.” 

“What concern is it of yours?” 

Philippe clasped his hands behind his back as they continued down the path through the grove. “I don’t trust him.” 

Louis chuckled. “Neither do I. He is a Frenchman, but he works for the Indian. That is how politics work, brother.” 

Philippe shook his head. “He shouldn’t be given free reign of the palace. He did something the night of the party when he first arrived …” 

“Did what?” Louis asked, stopping to pin Philippe with a curious gaze. 

“He introduced himself to me and the Chevalier, and then, he kissed his hand. It was strange.” 

“He kissed the hand of the Chevalier de Lorraine?” Louis echoed, a note of amusement lifting his tone. 

“It was strange.” Philippe repeated. “I didn’t like the look in his eye.” 

“You mean you didn’t like it that he was touching your favorite.” Louis said, “Philippe, it does not matter to me who he fucks - men or women, children even. If he brings me India, then I will be happy.” 

Philippe heaved a sigh. “You know, there was a time when you would have heeded my advice. When you trusted your own brother.” 

“Yes.” Louis said, “I trust him to sometimes be proud and jealous. I trust him to put his lover above political goals. I trust him to trust Lorraine more than me.” 

“That’s not true, and you know it.” 

“Is it? Sometimes, I wonder.” 

Louis turned to continue walking, but his tone dismissed Philippe from going with him. He was left among the peach blossoms, their little white flowers dusting his shoulders and clinging to his hair. They perfumed the air with a sweet, cloying smell, and it reminded Philippe of the way LaFayette had smiled when he kissed Chevalier’s knuckles. Saccharine and overpowering, luring the court with outward beauty that would one day reveal a rotten interior. 

 

~

 

The mood about the palace was tense as word had gotten out that the King and council were waiting to hear from India about whether they would accept the trade negotiations. To lighten the morale, it was announced that Barthelemy Hervart, Superintendent of Finance, would be hosting a party at his villa in Saint-Cloud. Most of the court was invited to go, including LaFayette, and of course, Philippe and Chevalier. 

The morning of the party, Philippe was watching over a domestic pack a bag for the brief journey from Paris to Saint-Cloud when Chevalier wandered into the rooms. He made a show of plopping down onto the bed, and sighing aloud while Philippe looked over which pairs of stockings he wanted to bring with him. 

When his sighing didn’t bring him the attention he wanted, Chevalier rolled over and propped himself up on his elbows. “Mignonnet …” 

Philippe waved a finger at a pair of blue stockings, and ordered the maid to pack them. 

“Yes?” He said. 

“Must we go?”

“To Saint-Cloud?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why wouldn’t we?” Philippe asked, casting a dubious gaze over his shoulder at Chevalier. 

“I don’t know, I thought perhaps we could stay here. You can teach me a bit more about fencing so that one day I might actually have prayer at beating you.” 

Philippe scoffed. “Do you remember how well that went last time?” 

“Well, it doesn’t have to be fencing, at least not that sort of swordplay.” Chevalier said. He sat up on the bed, and crossed his legs. “It could be fun, you know. Just the two of us here at the palace, alone, no one to tell us to stop …” 

Philippe motioned for the maid to leave. She scurried out of the room, and the door slipped shut behind her, sealing the room in silence. 

Philippe walked slowly toward the bed, scrutinizing Chevalier’s doe-eyed expression. Those eyes could grant him many things, but the past week had tainted whatever innocence he hoped to imbue into this attempt at secluding them. 

“You’ve never been one to avoid a party.” Philippe said. He caught a strand of Chevalier’s blond hair between his fingers, twirling it thoughtfully. “What’s gotten into you?” 

“Nothing.” Chevalier laughed, reaching up to clutch Philippe’s hips. “You’ve been away from me all week. I miss you.” 

“Must I always be within touching distance of you for you to remain happy and satisfied?” Philippe asked, allowing himself to be reeled into. 

Chevalier rose to knees on the mattress, and wrapped his arms around Philippe’s neck. 

“Yes.” He murmured, blending the affirmation into a kiss. 

Philippe muttered a sound of pleasure as Chevalier’s tongue wound past his lips. The kiss lengthened until their tongues were stroking back and forth, and his skin was suddenly hot beneath the heavy layers of silk fabric. 

Chevalier tugged him down onto the bed, and they rolled across the mattress, Philippe first coming out on top, and then Chevalier. Chevalier straddled his hips, and broke the kiss, leaning back to scrape his hair back from his face. One hand slipped down his chest to grasp at his erection through his trousers. 

“Well?” He murmured, “What do you say, mignonnet?” 

Philippe sighed, and shook his head. Grasping Chevalier’s hips, he heaved him up and across the sheets. As Chevalier tumbled back against the pillows, Philippe jumped up from the bed. 

“Come on.” He said, “Stop fooling about. We must pack.” 

Chevalier’s lower lip dropped as Philippe marched across the room to his half-packed bag.  “So, you leave me like this? Hard and aching?” 

“You do it to yourself.” Philippe said, “Now hurry up.” 

He passed a cursory gaze over his closet where shirts, vests, and trousers hung before turning to the second set of doors. Throwing them open, he looked over the selection of dresses with a smile. 

He heard the bed creak and Chevalier’s shoes hit the floor. He glanced over his shoulder in time to see his blond curls swinging as he marched out of the room. 

Philippe’s fingers drifted from the silk folds of the dresses. 

He’d convinced himself that their argument the night of the party honoring LaFayette had been the product of too much wine and the prodding of the Vicomte’s perverted gaze. Now, Lorraine was acting strangely, and it made him wonder if he should have looked farther than his own hazy memory of that evening. 

 

~

 

Hervart’s villa at Saint-Cloud was an enchanting retreat that overlooked the River Seine. The south pavilion faced the gardens which led in descending terraces toward the glistening strip of water that wandered off into the French hillside. It was here that the party originated, beginning with a lavish dinner and entertainment. 

Louis and their mother were the last to arrive, making their entrance once all the guests were assembled around the table. Everyone rose to their feet as the two entered, and found their seats at the center of the table. 

Louis’ gaze lingered on Philippe, who had chosen to wear a dress this evening, until he had passed by him to his seat. 

Philippe didn’t know exactly why he wanted to torment his brother tonight. He doubted his own conclusions about LaFayette just as much as Louis doubted them. He doubted his memory, and his motivations, yet he wanted nothing more than to offer Louis a defiant facade in the hopes of jarring a reaction. Any reaction. He hated to use something he thoroughly enjoyed as a stick to poke Louis with, but it was the only card he could play. Louis had grown tired of haranguing him for his pursuit of male lovers long ago. 

When they were all seated again, dinner was served. 

Louis stood up, and made a toast to LaFayette and their negotiations. The table murmured the sentiment, and drank the toast in silence. 

“And now,” Louis said, setting his empty glass down. “Let the festivities begin. Tonight is not a night of negotiation or conquest. It is a night of joy and celebration - for us, for France, and for the future.” 

He took his seat, indicating that dinner could proceed. 

Philippe took another drink of wine. 

LaFayette had been seated across from them, much to Philippe’s displeasure. He wondered if Louis had done it intentionally, to spite him.

_ Then let it be a night of spite.  _ Philippe thought, crossing his legs beneath the heaviness of his skirts. 

After dinner, the party spilled down into the gardens where a quartet of musicians had taken up their instruments to fill the air with rousing melodies.

Philippe and Chevalier walked arm-in-arm through the terraces, the air unusually absent of their banter. 

“Why do you vex him like this?” Chevalier asked, glancing across the lawns at Louis, who was sitting with Henriette on the pavilion. 

“You don’t approve?” Philippe asked, “My dear, I thought you had crowned yourself the king of vexing others.” 

“Yes, so stop trying to dethrone me.” Chevalier replied, gently elbowing Philippe in the side. 

Chevalier’s chuckle ebbed as Philippe continued walking in silence, gazing out at the River Seine, its waters like a reflecting glass beneath the golden rays of impending dusk. The hillside was lavish green beneath the yellow splendor, and the sky was a cloudless blue. Here, all seemed simple and well, as if the cares of the world could fall away with one daring sunset. The purple and pink tingeing the sky looked like oil on a canvas, as if the painter had been searching for the definition of peace. 

Philippe sighed as the heaviness in his chest rose by a measure. 

Chevalier’s fingers tightened around his bicep. “Are you still angry with me?” He asked, his tone unusually diminutive. 

Philippe glanced over to find wide green eyes gazing at him anxiously. 

“For what?” He asked. 

“The past few weeks haven’t exactly been smooth sailing.” 

“No, but I thought we had put that behind us.” 

Chevalier flashed a quick, yet false smile. “Yes, of course …”

“ _ But _ ?” Philippe pressed, pausing their meandering pace through the garden. 

“You seem … quiet.” Chevalier said, his gaze darting from Philippe’s. “Dissatisfied.” 

Philippe sighed, and reached down to clasp Chevalier’s hands. “It isn’t you.” 

“No? You make it difficult to tell.” 

Philippe nodded. “I know. I think too much. Sometimes I feel I’m locked in a dark room … but I’m inside my own thoughts, chasing them round and round in circles.” 

“Are you certain it isn’t Louis you’re chasing?” Chevalier asked, cutting a glare up the yard at the pavilion. 

Philippe followed his gaze. Louis was surrounded by their mother, his Spanish bride, and Henriette. Women had always preferred him, even their own mother. They rotated around him like satellites circling the sun.  They surely knew more of these negotiations than he did. 

“I spoke to him the other day about the negotiations.” Philippe admitted. “He was less than forthcoming … less than agreeable about my asking.” 

“So, this is how you repay him?” Chevalier said, nodding at the train of Philippe’s dress dragging behind them. "I suppose we must all seize our little victories, wherever we can find them." 

“He thinks he can define me. Keep me in a little box. I will show him one day that I am my own person.” 

“By wearing a dress?” 

“No.” Philippe said, stopping to gaze out at the river. 

He was struck again by the beauty of this place, tucked away from the bustle and din of Paris. He could imagine living in a place like this one, and how much easier it would be than remaining at the palace surrounded family and duty. Of course, this villa was not fit for a prince, a realization the tugged lower the already weary weight in his chest. He would give almost anything for this view each morning. 

Philippe's chest tightened as the answer seemed to come at him on the river's breeze. This villa was not fit for a prince  _ yet  _ ;  it only needed a prince to  _ make _ it fit for royalty. In truth, he would not have to give much in order to have this view. 

He whirled around to capture Chevalier’s gaze, a smile spreading across his face. 

 “No, I am going to buy this villa, Lorraine!” He announced, “ And when I own it, I will dress in it however I like, and I won’t stop there. I will transform this little villa into a chateau worthy of a prince. I am going to extend these gardens all the way to the river. I will add an art gallery fit to rival the ones in Paris. I’m going to create something that Louis and my mother have not touched - that no one but me has touched. Then … Then I will live here.” 

Chevalier blinked, his mouth moving wordlessly for a moment before sputtering, “You’ve made this decision just now?” 

“Yes.” Philippe said, smiling wildly at Chevalier’s startled expression. “They won’t give me any freedom beyond the palace, so I have to take it for myself. I have the money, and they cannot stop me.” 

“And then what?” Chevalier asked, the light in his eyes shifting to share Philippe’s excitement. 

“Well, I think you should leave the palace as well, and move here.” Philippe said, “Just you and me … and the servants, of course.” 

Chevalier’s smile widened as Philippe wrapped his arms around his waist. 

“You want me to come with you?” He asked, his voice dropping to a shaky whisper. 

“Yes, of course.” Philippe said, planting a kiss on his mouth. “Why wouldn’t I?” 

“Right. Silly me. Of course you would.” Chevalier said, his mouth trembling despite its joyful smile. 

Philippe laughed, and kissed him again. 

Perhaps it was the night air, the scent of the river on the breeze, the wine, or the desserts. Perhaps it was Chevalier’s mouth, tasting like freedom, his eyes green like an open field he could flee across. Perhaps it was all those things and more, but he suddenly felt lighter, as if the weight of the palace and its politics had dropped like shackles from his wrists, and he could see a future beyond those walls. Louis had said this was a night to celebrate the future, and for once in a long while, Philippe agreed with him. 

 

~

 

The sun went down over the villa as the party stretched on. Once darkness had settled, the guests gathered on the lawn for a fireworks show. 

Chevalier and Philippe lay in the grass sharing a bottle of wine, watching the red, blues, whites, and greens light up the sky with explosions of noise and color. Chevalier propped himself up on his elbow, and glanced down at Philippe, whose wide eyes were fixed on the sky. 

A white explosion rained across the blackened sky, lighting up his features for a moment before falling back into shadow. He was beautiful in this moment, even with the conflict raging within him. 

Chevalier didn’t know whether Philippe would hold true to his plan to buy this villa and start a new life together, but he hadn’t stopped trembling since he had spoken it. These past eight months with Philippe were like something from a dream, a fantasy he had conjured after taking some powders and falling asleep. Not only was Philippe beautiful and wicked in bed, he was also good in his heart. Too good for Chevalier. He could be childish, selfish, wild, and unruly at times, but when that raging hurt inside him finally stilled, there were always tears and apologies, gifts, and desperate attempts at compensation. He was as hungry for companionship as Chevalier, and so, they made the perfect match. 

It was the fact that he was a prince, a station much higher than Chevalier had ever managed to ensnare, that made him tremble. There was the taste of freedom in Philippe’s suggestions, in the pretty, pink seam of his lips. He was so close to achieving absolute protection he could almost feel it like a sword in his fist. Nothing and no one could ever hurt him again. If the night passed, and the wine mellowed, and Philippe woke with these same thoughts in his head, those wounds he fought to forget would forever be a thing of the past. 

When the fireworks died out, and there was only smoke floating like clouds in the sky, the guests turned to the indoors where card tables were set up. 

Chevalier dragged Philippe up from the grass, and led him up through the gardens back to the pavilion. 

“We should play.” Chevalier said. “Try to win as much as we can in one night.” 

“You’re terrible at cards.” Philippe said. “You lose every time.” 

“Not if I’m helping you.” Chevalier said. He nodded at the table where Louis was seated. “I see our target.” 

“No.” Philippe said, “If he figures out that we’re cheating, he will string you up by your toes.” 

“You are no fun at all.” Chevalier complained. 

“Louis is actually good at cards, unlike you.” Philippe said. “We should choose an easier target. Someone with equally deep pockets who is not as smart.” 

He scanned the room before laying eyes on Louvois . “Ah-ha.” 

“Oh, really?” Chevalier said. “You don’t even need my help to beat him. You go on, then. I have to go take a piss.” 

“So you’re abandoning me?” Philippe protested as Chevalier disentangled his arm from his, and swaggered around the nearest card table. 

“Go on, mignonnet. You’ll be wonderful, I’m sure.” 

Philippe shook his head, a smile stretching across his mouth. He waved a hand as Chevalier retreated into the hall. 

The raucous sounds of laughter and conversation faded as he wandered down the darkened corridor to locate the pot. Squinting against the shadows, he made out the shape of the silver pot at the end of the hall near the back exit. He hastened his pace until he reached it, and quickly unbuttoned his trousers to relieve himself. 

Bracing himself against the wall, he let out a sigh. His head was already swimming from too much wine, but it was that stage of discomfort right before the night descends into a hazy blur. Even though Philippe didn’t need his help to win of hand of cards, he had every intention of getting right back to the tables to see if he could get the evening to go his way. Philippe was in the proper mood for sex in the other room while the rest of the party guests were only a wall away, and the chance of getting caught was perfectly high so as to add the element of danger to their tryst. 

“Hello, Lorraine.” 

Chevalier startled at the sound of the voice behind him, like a snake’s hiss cutting through the shadows. Stuffing his dick back into his trousers, he fumbled to get the buttons closed as he cut a glance over his shoulder. 

LaFayette stood in the hall just behind him, his fingers wrapped around the marble top of his cane. Though his face was half-hidden in shadow, Chevalier could make out the glitter of his eyes seething through the darkness. 

“It’s a pity that we haven’t had a chance at privacy since my arrival here.” LaFayette continued, emerging from the shadows to approach Chevalier’s trembling form huddled against the wall. His cane thudded with every step, jarring to present every memory he’d tried to bury.

Chevalier’s hands froze around the front of his trousers. He leaned into the wall as LaFayette drew closer, eyes filleting him from head to toe. 

“Cat got your tongue?” LaFayette pressed, a chuckle grinding from the back of his throat. “This surprises me. It was always your mouth that got you in the most trouble.” 

Chevalier swallowed against the lump forming in the back of his throat. “Wh-what do you want?” 

“What do I want?” LaFayette echoed, impressing casual innocence into his tone. “You sound frightened, darling.” 

“You know very well why that would be.” Chevalier whispered, the words wavering from past his clenched teeth. 

LaFayette smiled thinly, as if he were being very patient with a dull child. “You only ever brought it on yourself, Lorraine.” 

“You should leave.” Chevalier said, glancing down the hall where the light from the card room offered a distant escape. 

He straightened, and buttoned his pants, forcing his fingers not to tremble. 

“Why would I do that?” LaFayette asked.

“You know why.” Chevalier said, lifting his chin. “I’m with Philippe now. The Duc d’Orleans. The king’s brother. If you hurt me, there will be hell to pay.” 

“You mean that pitiful, confused boy in a dress?” LaFayette asked, a coarse chuckle erupting past his lips. “ _ He  _ is going to hurt me? Is that what you think?” 

“Yes. He will.” 

Chevalier shifted away from the wall and back toward the corridor, but LaFayette took a step to the side, blocking his path. 

“Lorraine, I have the favor of the king and the queen.” LaFayette said, a smug smile spreading across his face. “And their favor will always outweigh the favor of a prince.” 

“Yes, and they approved our match.” 

It was a falsehood, but in this moment, that didn’t matter; all that mattered was that LaFayette believe him.  _ Please God, let the bastard believe him.  _

LaFayette began to chuckle as he advanced toward Chevalier. “The queen approved of you fucking her son? You take me for a fool.” 

Chevalier looked up at LaFayette’s dark eyes, glinting like a feral creature preparing to attack, and then at the yellow light at the end of the hall which now seemed more distant than before. Despite the relatively small size of the villa, he knew no one would hear it should there be a fight. The musicians had brought out their instruments once more, and the sound of laughter and chatter rose above whatever plaintive cry he might manage before being struck down. 

 He shifted a pleading gaze back to LaFayette. 

“Please, don’t do this here.” He whispered. 

LaFayette ducked his head, and nodded, as if he were thoroughly considering the proposal.  As Chevalier stood trembling, waiting, and hoping, he began to chuckle. His gaze traveled back up again, until it rested heavily on him with predatory brightness. 

For a moment there was silence except for the fearful rasp of Chevalier’s breath in the back of his throat. 

LaFayette lunged, seizing him by the jaw with one hand, the nape of his hair with the other. He thrust Chevalier into the wall, sending his head thudding into the plaster and jarring a whimper from his throat. 

“You are as pathetic as I recall.” LaFayette hissed, his breath surging hot across Chevalier’s trembling mouth. “I will have you on your knees, drinking my cum, you cheap, worthless little whore.” 

Chevalier’s head throbbed, lights spilling before his eyes like the glint of the fireworks as LaFayette dragged him away from the wall and through the door into the next room. He squeezed his eyes shut as LaFayette threw him to the ground. As he scrambled to his knees, LaFayette towered over him, crowding him against the wall so that there was little chance of escape. 

LaFayette grasped his jaw, and pinned his head back against the wall. 

Chevalier’s eyes fluttered open, searching wildly through the darkness to make out the shape of LaFayette’s fingers plying his cock from his breeches. 

The panicked rush of his breath filled his head. He was paralyzed by cold, gripping fear even as time seemed to grind to a crawl, every detail impressing itself into his mind as if by a branding iron: the pressure of LaFayette’s fingers around his jaw, the hardwood floor biting into his knees, the sliver of the moon glinting like a distant escape through the window, and the summer’s breeze wafting just past the open pane. He could smell the river, the gardens, the lingering, smoky remnants of burned-out fireworks. If he closed his eyes, he could almost detach himself from the fear and disgust crawling across every inch of his skin, and imagine a romantic scenario in which the moonlight played softly across his lover’s raven hair. 

LaFayette’s thumb dragged across his lower lip, urging his mouth open. 

“Are you going to make me hurt you?” He whispered. 

Keeping his eyes firmly shut, Chevalier shook his head. 

A low chuckle. “Good.” 

Chevalier licked his lips. His tongue felt dry and thick with a dull fear that had faded to a sick sense of inevitability. 

He opened his mouth, and LaFayette forced his cock inside. 

 


	4. The Prey

Philippe had chosen Louvois because he was not adept at cards, but Chevalier had been right when he suggested the man was no challenge and therefore not a pleasurable conquest. Philippe played only a few hands before divesting Louvois of his purse. 

“It was a pleasure, truly.” He said, scraping the loose coins into his own purse. 

Louvois’ mouth pursed into a thin smile, but his frustration was evident in the ruddy color on his cheeks. “Likewise, Highness.” He said. 

Philippe rose from the table, and scanned the room for Chevalier. He was easy to locate from amongst a crowd, particularly at a party, as he was always the most flamboyant, and the most well-dressed. Party-goers flocked to him like flies to honey. This evening, however, Philippe’s scan of the room came up empty. Chevalier had seemed eager to return to him, perhaps to steal him away into a bit of privacy where they could engage in carnal pleasures this party could not offer. He found it strange that he had not yet returned. 

Philippe wandered around the crowded room, stopping at the tables where Chevalier’s friends were seated to inquire as to his whereabouts. No one had seen him since the conclusion of the fireworks. 

Philippe fleetingly pondered if Chevalier had grown bored of the party and of waiting, and had taken off with some young thing with which to entertain himself. Their relationship was one of a relaxed symbiosis, a giving and taking. They offered each other things other people could not, yet they had never locked one another away from their desires if their gaze wandered somewhere else. Still, some part of Philippe now flinched at the thought of Chevalier so easily falling prey to another’s seduction. After his promises of a new life together once he purchased this chateau, he had hoped Chevalier would be more scrupulous with the long leash he had been given. 

Philippe squared his shoulders, and slipped out of the room through the door he had seen Chevalier leave through. The dark hallway stretched down several yards to a set of double doors that led out onto the eastern veranda. The doors lining the hall where all closed except for the very last one. From this doorway, emanated a sound Philippe was quite familiar with - the gagged moan of Chevalier with a cock down his throat. 

Philippe quickened his pace down the hall, gathering up his skirts in both hands to avoid tripping in his haste. Blood rushed hot to his face as he neared the room, and the moaning grew louder, overlapping now with another man’s voice.

He charged around the corner, prepared to lambast whatever pretty young man Chevalier had managed to ensnare, but his ire jolted to a cold, dead stop when he laid eyes on the nobleman towering over a kneeling Chevalier. 

The Vicomte’s fingers were tangled in Chevalier’s hair, guiding his head back and forth at an eager pace. Despite the shadows, it was obvious that his breeches were unlaced, and that his prick was free and making erotic use of Chevalier’s gaping mouth. His head hung back, his mouth clenching and gasping in rhythmic sounds of pleasure that grew raspier as his hips thrust harder, faster into Chevalier’s mouth. 

Chevalier seemed to struggle with the powerful rhythm of the man’s rutting, but he was hardly resisting. His fingers were locked around the loose fabric of LaFayette’s trousers, pulling him closer. With his eyes shut, he was unaware of Philippe’s presence, blissfully ignorant that he’d been caught red-handed. 

All of Philippe’s rage landed empty and hollow. He stood paralyzed in the doorway as LaFayette’s pleasure reached its end. His hips shuddered as he came, pushing Chevalier’s head back against the wall with a thump. Milky streams of release spilled past Chevalier’s stretched lips, and the guttural sound of Chevalier choking rose discordantly over LaFayette’s pleasured groan. 

As LaFayette drew back, Chevalier lurched forward, retching onto the polished floor.

LaFayette steadied himself, preparing to remark on the miserable excuse for a man on the floor in front of him when he caught sight of Philippe standing rigidly at the door. 

“Oh, your Highness.” 

Chevalier’s gaze raced up to meet Philippe’s, his eyes turning round and glossy with horror. In an instant, the flush was gone from his cheeks, replaced by mortified anemia. He swiped desperately at the cum dripping from his mouth, succeeding only in smearing the evidence across his cheek.

“Philippe.” He said, trembling panic racing through his hoarse whisper. 

LaFayette calmly laced himself back into his breeches. “Forgive my indecency, your Highness.” 

Ignoring him, Philippe took a shaky step closer. He couldn’t take his eyes off of Chevalier. He was trying to convince himself that he wasn’t enraged, that he wasn’t hurt, but he could see the glint of dismay in Chevalier’s eyes that told him that this was a betrayal and nothing less. 

“You told me you didn’t know him.” Philippe said, the words echoing hollowly through his brain. 

Chevalier scrambled to his feet, pawing disheveled strands of hair back from his pallid cheeks. “I can explain this.” 

“I’m certain you can.” Philippe said. 

Gathering up his skirts, he turned and marched back down the hall. The sound of his heels striking the floor echoed dimly behind the shocked hum swelling to a shrill ring in his ears. His own breathing was like the rush of the wind, his heartbeat like thunder. Emotion expanded and tangled in his chest, filling him with a foreign, ungainly weight that he’d never felt before. He had been a jealous and possessive lover to all the favorites who had come before, but never with this intensity, this devastation that he felt now. He had never longed for the loyalty of those other men because it had been given inherently to him by his title alone - and he had never expected it to be ripped from him so casually, with the great disregard that gleamed in LaFayette’s eyes, and the evidence of treachery that shone in Chevalier’s.

He stopped when he reached the doorway, and braced himself against the wall. The card tables lay just beyond, offering a tableau of mindless entertainment he now felt entirely disillusioned from. 

No one could see him this way. 

He paused to draw in a deep breath, and calm the racing of his heart. His eyes stung as his mind replayed the moment Chevalier had looked up, and saw him watching. LaFayette’s expression of smug satisfaction was quick to follow. Those dead eyes held some life in them, the joy of watching a chasm rip wide between them. 

Philippe opened his eyes to see Chevalier jogging down the hallway. 

“Philippe!” 

“I don’t want to hear it!” Philippe retorted, shoving away from the wall to meet him. “You  told me you didn’t know him!” 

“Will you listen for one moment?” Chevalier said, holding both hands outstretched in a plea. 

“You selfish, stupid little fool! I promised you the world, and the next moment, you throw it back in my face!” Philippe shouted, thrusting a finger at his face. 

“No, that isn’t-”

“You thought you could get away with it, didn’t you?” Philippe hissed, leaning closer to glare into Chevalier’s shimmering eyes. “I am the king’s brother. I know all; I see all!” 

Chevalier’s mouth went limp, his lower lip trembling. His gaze sank to the floor, blinking against the swell of tears. He swallowed thickly, and took a tentative step closer. 

“Philippe, you must believe me. It wasn’t me.” He whispered, putting a trembling hand on his arm on Philippe’s arm. “It wasn’t what I meant to happen.” 

Slapping his touch away, Philippe turned to clutch a hand through his hair. The edges of the doorway where the light spilled into the hall blurred as hot tears stung his eyes. 

“Mignonnet, please … It was him.” 

Philippe felt Chevalier’s fingers against his back, brushing the skin where the neckline stretched across his shoulders. He savored it for a single second before wrenching himself away. 

“Do not call me that.” 

 He strode out of the hall and past the card tables, not giving himself the chance to look back. He pushed the door open with his shoulder, and burst out onto the pavilion where the shadows stretched long across the gardens. He ran across the grass, ignoring the sound of Chevalier calling his name. 

 

~

 

Chevalier slept fitfully that night. The strange surroundings of the villa offered little comfort to his racing mind, and wounded heart. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw LaFayette looming over him, his face etched with that horrid smirk of satisfaction. When he tried not to think of that nauseating image, his mind immediately turned to Philippe, which in turn only made him feel more wretched. 

He vacillated between sobbing into the pillow and cursing angrily at the ceiling. At three o’clock in the morning, he rose and pilfered some wine from the kitchen. When he was suitably drunk, he at last fell into a disturbed sleep that was haunted by visages of the past. 

The next morning, he awoke to one of the servants warning him he might be left behind. They had already packed away his bags, leaving only himself to be carried back to the palace. 

He stumbled out of bed, head throbbing, and managed to dress himself before wandering outside. The sun was shining brightly overhead, blinding his tender eyes. 

All of the nobles’ carriages were lined up, prepared for the return journey to Paris. Philippe’s carriage was near the front of the line.

Chevalier’s hasty stride came to a halt when he drew closer, and saw Philippe leaning close to a young man, and speaking in hushed tones. The boy laughed, ducking his head and blushing at whatever sweet-nothings it was that the prince was whispering in his ear. 

Chevalier clasped his hands tightly behind his back, and drew in a shaky breath. Philippe was always quite the flirt about the palace, but watching this interaction after last night’s disaster felt like a knife going through his chest. 

The boy glanced up, and stopped laughing when he noticed Chevalier glaring at them. 

Philippe turned to see what his companion was looking at. When his gaze fell on Chevalier, the blue of his eyes was like a frigid winter day rather than the softness of a spring sky after rain that Chevalier knew so well. His mouth turned down into a thin line as their gazes reached one another. 

He shooed the young nobleman away, and turned to meet Chevalier. 

“You look like shit.” 

“I had a terrible night.” 

“I imagine you did.” Philippe said, his tone absent of compassion. 

“Why do you hate him so, and not all the others I have courted?” 

“Because, you lied to me.” Philippe said, “You should have simply told me the moment he arrived that you knew him, and perhaps I would not now be so displeased with you. And because he is helping my brother; you should have known that I would not approve.” 

“So, this is my fault?” 

“Isn’t it?” 

Chevalier squinted at the distant gleam of the Seine cutting its way across the distant landscape. He thought of fleeing across the field and throwing himself in to rid himself of the gnawing desperation aching in his belly. 

“And beside all that, he is a smug and vile person who clearly enjoyed watching how things played out last night.” Philippe added, “He’s sick, Lorraine, and you are sick for entertaining him.” 

Chevalier was unable to muster a rebuttal as Philippe turned on his heel and marched back to his carriage. Climbing inside, he pulled the door shut, and pounded the side of it to signal the coachman to drive. 

Chevalier watched the carriage drive away, the knot in his stomach growing ever larger. 

He had never felt more alone. For the past eight months, he had allowed Philippe to anchor him, to drive his every waking thought, and take up his every spare moment. He had been a satellite to the sun, existing purely at Philippe’s pleasure, nourishing himself on that light and grace. He didn’t know what a life beyond that circle meant for him at the Palais-Royale. He had plenty of friends in the salons, but none that compared to Philippe. No one that would hold him the way Philippe did, no one that would make love to him with such passion and intensity, no one that would make his blood to sing with a single glance - no one who could love him as Philippe did. 

A wild, desperate part of him longed to run after the carriage, and tell Philippe everything. Perhaps he could win Philippe back if he could only open his mouth, and speak the truth. But that fear, like an ironclad grip around his heart, kept him cowering in silence. He could not admit to the sordid truth of he and LaFayette’s dark history. He could not reveal himself to be  such a coward; Philippe would never hold a scrap of respect for him again. 

“Do you need a ride?”

Chevalier spun around. He recognized LaFayette’s voice before he laid eyes on the man, hovering just behind him. LaFayette’s carriage had been drawn up, and waited for him to step inside. 

“I would rather walk back to Paris, thank you.” Chevalier said, turning his gaze back to the road where Philippe’s carriage grew to a distant speck. 

“I doubt that.” LaFayette said, “You wouldn’t make it a mile.”

Chevalier clenched his teeth against a hasty retort, knowing well that LaFayette was right. 

“Come now, darling.” LaFayette said, his hand brushing Chevalier’s lower back. “I don’t see anyone else here who will take you in.” 

“I’ll have you know I have many friends at court.” Chevalier said, “I don’t need your help … though I doubt  _ help  _ is what you’re offering.” 

LaFayette chuckled. “You should consider yourself lucky that I even taxed myself to travel this distance for you. I’d been away in Rome for some time when I learned you were at Louis’ court. It was a long, difficult journey.” 

“Oh, how romantic of you.” Chevalier said, snapping a tart gaze at him. “You must have been so prevailed upon to travel all this way, and secure yourself a trade deal between India and France, no doubt pocketing a hefty purse along with it.” 

“Please.” LaFayette said, smiling wanly. “This deal is only the icing on a very tasty cake.” 

“If you expect me to believe that you came all the way here for me, and nothing else, you must be very delusional indeed.” 

LaFayette’s gaze hardened from smug to resolute. “Lorraine, you must know by now - when I own something, when I take it for myself, I do not let it go.” 

Chevalier glared petulantly as LaFayette flashed a smile, and motioned for him to follow. 

“Now, come, get in the carriage.” 

“Thank you, but no.” 

LaFayette paused, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. His shoulders rose with a deep, steadying breath. He turned slowly to pin Chevalier with a cold, calculating gaze. Striding back to where Chevalier stood, he thrust a finger at the carriage. 

“You will get in the carriage, Lorraine, or I will be forced to go to the King and make him aware of the money you owe me. I do not know him well, but I imagine he would not appreciate having a debtor at his court.” 

He turned and marched to the carriage, leaving his words to pummel and lacerate like the edge of a deadly weapon. They held the weight of a thousand spears, each of them driving through Chevalier’s stomach with nauseating ease. He could have lashed out except for the truth of them. There is no witty retort when one’s life is in the hands of a much harsher, crueler man. 

Stomach turning, Chevalier followed LaFayette to the carriage. He climbed inside, and sat on the cushion opposite LaFayette. As the carriage lurched forward, he focused on the scenery passing by. He felt as if he could see the next few days, the weeks, even the years unraveling before him, all of them swelling in pitiless agony, defining him a helpless prisoner to the whims of a sadistic man.  Escape was a distant relief. Philippe’s good graces, once a guarantee, seemed as unreliable as the wind. 

 

~ 

 

Upon their return to the palace, Philippe arranged for a party to be held in the salon near his rooms, and sent out exclusive invitations. He wanted little to do with the stuffy nobles who were loyal only to the king, or those who held leisure and parties in low esteem. He invited only those whom he considered to be full of life and joy, and would provide him a diversion from thoughts of his Chevalier. 

The wound had cut deeper than he first considered. He had spent nearly all night thinking of it, despising not only LaFayette, but his own melancholy over the matter. Chevalier was one of many favorites who had come and gone through his inner circle, yet he could not shake the despondency he felt over having been betrayed by this lover in particular. 

_ No matter.  _ He thought.  _ I will drown myself in wine, and desserts, and perfumes until I cannot feel the pain any longer.  _

This task is what he set out to do that evening as the party commenced, but even as he danced with half-naked young men and woman, and downed glass after glass of wine, the shadow of Chevalier followed. He wondered if, or perhaps yearned for, the contrition he’d seen in Chevalier’s eyes the morning after to be true and genuine; but Chevalier had never apologized for his behavior, no matter how scandalous it became, no matter how despicable the conquest. This time shouldn’t be any different. 

Philippe was on his fourth glass of wine when he glanced across the room, past the swaying and gyrating bodies of the party guests, to see the subject of his thoughts lingering tentatively at the doorway. He was too drunk to wonder at Chevalier’s meek posture, just unhinged enough to vengefully enjoy it. 

He made his way slowly across the room, focusing on putting one drunken foot in front of the other. When he made it to the doorway, he braced himself against the wall, and brazenly met Chevalier’s gaze. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Looking for you.” 

“Why? You’re not invited to this party.” Philippe said, pointedly placing his hand on the door handle. 

“I thought perhaps you could make an exception.” 

“For you?” Philippe said, chuckling. “Not this time.” 

Chevalier stared at him, unusually silent for a long moment, before nodding in resignation. “I understand. There will be no second chances.” 

“I have given you many second chances.” Philippe said. “You require them. Daily.” 

Chevalier’s jaw tightened. He rearranged his expression to one neutrality. “Then forgive me, Highness, for vexing you with my continued presence. I shall take my leave.” 

Philippe frowned as Chevalier turned to retreat down the corridor. He had expected more; some dramatic outburst of desperation, begging and pleading Philippe to let him stay. Something deeper and darker moved beneath the surface, but he was too inebriated for logic or compassion. Abrupt and fiery anger rose in his chest. He was drunk and reckless, and this cavalier attitude Chevalier displayed simply wouldn’t do. 

“Do not turn your back on me.” 

Chevalier stopped, his hands clenching at his sides. 

“I didn’t dismiss you.” Philippe continued, shuffling out into the hall to wave a trembling finger at him. The door swung shut behind him, leaving them in the stifling silence of the hall, where their words echoed and grew beyond a single moment. 

“Why must you dismiss me if I was not invited?” Chevalier asked, each word grinding rigidly from his lips. 

“Because I wish it to be so.” Philippe snapped. He tilted his glass to his mouth, and drained the last of the wine from it. He gripped the stem as he glared at Chevalier, holding onto the wavering fear in his eyes, before throwing the glass to the ground. 

The sound of the glass splintering reverberated through the hall. Tiny shards exploded against the smooth wood floor, and scattered in every direction. The sound of the minuscule pieces dancing across the floor filled the air with the tangible evidence of his pain, until at last, the echoes died away, swallowing his petulant rage into silence. 

Philippe took a swaying step closer, ignoring the fragments of glass scattered across the hall. 

“Come here.” He ordered. 

Chevalier stared at him, his eyes wide and shimmering. 

“Come. Now.” Philippe repeated, stabbing a finger at the floor.  “Come, my darling, tell me how I’ve broken your heart. Tell me that I am drunk and stupid, and that you hate me.” 

Chevalier lifted his chin, clenching his jaw against the glimmer of pain in his eyes. “I don’t hate you.” 

“But you must!” Philippe cried, throwing his hands wide. “Why don’t you scream it, my dear Chevalier? Why don’t come here at once and strike me?” 

“Is that what you wish?” Chevalier demanded, his face growing pink with frustration. “Truly?” 

Philippe staggered through the patches of glass, ignoring the dim, needle-like pain as the shards bit into the bare soles of his feet. He seized Chevalier by the front of his jacket, and heaved him closer. 

“Don’t you wish it?” He whispered, searching Chevalier’s perturbed gaze for some sign of the angry passion he longed for. “This is your one and only chance. I am the best thing you will ever achieve - after tonight, it’s all quick, sharp drop to the bottom.” 

“Let me go, then, if I am no longer in your favor.”  Chevalier whispered, his eyes darting away from Philippe’s. 

“Ahh, I see.” Philippe murmured. 

He uncurled his fist from around Chevalier’s jacket, and slid his palm up to grasp his cheek. Chevalier flinched, his gaze darting nervously between the floor and Philippe.

 Philippe slowly delved his fingers into the nape of Chevalier’s hair, and curled his fist tight until his knuckles were taut against the back of Chevalier’s head. Chevalier uttered a quiet whimper as Philippe dragged his head back, gradually forcing him to his knees. 

“You prefer your confrontation like this.” Philippe whispered. He leveraged his other hand against Chevalier’s shoulder, pushing him down to the floor. “Is this what I must do to spark some life in you? Take you the way  _ he  _ did?” 

A shadow of darkness fell across Chevalier’s face. The dull misery in his eyes shifted, something deeper and angrier igniting inside them. Philippe had only a second to relish the reaction before Chevalier struck quick and hard with his fist, his aim landing true in Philippe’s groin. 

Philippe howled in pain as he collapsed to the ground, holding one hand over his throbbing crotch, and swinging wildly at Chevalier with the other. 

Chevalier pounced on him, seizing him by the throat. “Is this what you wanted?” He shouted, cocking his fist back. 

Philippe’s flailing hand struck him in the mouth at this moment, sending them rolling across the floor, scrambling to catch hold and pin the other. 

“I have use of those, you insolent little prick!” Philippe cried, shoving his palm across Chevalier’s face as the other man’s fingers latched around a handful of his hair. “Perhaps you do not intend to use yours for childbearing, but I have a royal duty yet to do!” 

“Do not make me think of you fucking a woman at this moment!” Chevalier retorted, “Do you want me to really hurt you?” 

“Yes, I’m begging you to!” 

Their raucous squabbling descended into huffs and grunts of pain as they rolled across the floor. The struggle lasted only a moment longer before Philippe managed to gain the upper hand, and pin Chevalier to the floor by his shoulders. He wedged himself between Chevalier’s legs, leveraging the weight of his hips down against Chevalier’s to hold him to the ground. Chevalier bucked beneath him, grunting loudly in exertion for several moments before his struggle availed him little, and he lapsed against the parqueted floor, breathing in tiny, whimpering bursts. 

“Tell me, why did you do it?” Philippe rasped, his head spinning from the wine and the fight. “Do I make you so unhappy?” 

“No!” Chevalier cried. 

Philippe awaited a further explanation, but Chevalier let his head fall back against the floor, his eyes slipping shut in quiet agony. His chest rose and fell sharply beneath Philippe’s hands, but his body had gone limp. 

Philippe huffed out a sigh of disbelief, and leaned back against his heels. He felt the pinch of tiny shards of glass embedded in his feet more acutely now that the panicked anger was gone. He felt deflated, like a vibrant bottle of wine gone sour. 

“You’re right.” Chevalier said, his voice holding a note of resignation. “You are the best thing that I will ever have.” 

“Then explain yourself. Whatever has gotten into you?” 

Chevalier opened his eyes, and sat up slowly. His gaze struck Philippe’s for a mere second before darting away. He reached out a hand to softly touch Philippe’s ankle. 

“You’re bleeding.” 

“I know.” Philippe said, pulling his foot out from under himself to look at the small bits of glass and blood marring the bottom of his foot. “It hurts terribly.” 

Chevalier rose to his feet. He brushed his hair back from his face, and straightened his jacket. 

“Wait here. I’ll fetch the doctor.” 

He took off down the hallway, turned the corner, and disappeared from Philippe’s sight. Part of him wondered if Chevalier would come back, if he  _ should  _ come back. Their affair had been borne of reckless passion, and had never once ceased to be a wild, unpredictable thing with teeth. They had been consistent in only one thing - for all the times they had argued, they had always reconciled come morning when their blood had cooled, and the wine no longer riled their veins. Philippe feared this night might be the exception. 

 


	5. The Rumor

Sunday dawned cold and rainy. A dense fog hung over Paris, draping the world outside the palace in cloudy wreaths that seemed to disconnect them from the rest of the world. 

Chevalier considered not going to mass, but decided his absence would be noted and less than appreciated by Philippe. He arrived late, when the communion line had already formed. He took his place at the back of the line, and searched the pews for Philippe. 

Philippe was near the front of the chapel, surrounded by his friends. His arm lay loosely around the shoulders of the young man to his right. As if he could sense Chevalier’s eyes on him, he shot a glance over his shoulder to locate him from across the room. His expression was solemn and sober, a stark difference to the feral behavior he had displayed the night before. 

Once Chevalier had fetched the doctor, he had returned to his own rooms and collapsed into bed. He had no taste for self-flagellation, and hadn’t wished to speak to Philippe any further. He had gone to the party hoping to persuade Philippe, but it was clear now that forgiveness would not be forthcoming. He was abandoned to defend himself against LaFayette alone. 

Chevalier scanned the line of nobles ahead of him as they shuffled closer to the priest. He did not see LaFayette among them. He was afforded a few moments of peace that ended abruptly when he felt a hand on his back. 

“I gave my confession this morning. Have you?” 

Chevalier spun around. 

LaFayette smiled at the look of shock on his face. “Pardon me, I did not mean to scare you.” 

“You didn’t.” 

LaFayette nodded, unconvinced. 

“I don’t go to confession.” Chevalier said, managing a nonchalant tone. “I am a Catholic in theory, not in practice - as is half of the court.” 

“Perhaps you should. A little unburdening is good for the soul.” 

“Does it make you feel less of a vile fiend? If so, then I have no need for confession as you do.” 

LaFayette gave a throaty chuckle. “I’m glad to see that while many things have changed, you have not. I do admire your spirit.” 

“Yes, as I recall, you enjoyed trying to crush it.” 

LaFayette gave a wounded sigh. “You think me cruel.” 

“Yes.” 

“If dear Philippe had not so rudely interrupted us that night in Saint-Cloud, I would have reminded you that I am not - that I can be very generous.”  LaFayette said, his voice dropping to a raspy whisper.

His palm pressed against Chevalier’s lower back. When Chevalier tried to twist away from the caress, his fingers clenched around his hip. 

Chevalier anxiously glanced around the chapel to see if anyone noticed how close LaFayette stood to him, but like the good Catholics they were, their eyes were all turned toward the priest. 

“Allow me to show you.” LaFayette continued, palming Chevalier’s other hip. “Come with me.” 

“No.” Chevalier whispered. “Not here.” 

LaFayette’s breath rushed hot through Chevalier’s hair and against his ear. “Need I remind you of our previous conversation about you, and the debt you owe me?” 

Chevalier closed his eyes, hearing the thud of his heart growing louder like a drum through his chest. His limbs felt numb as LaFayette gripped his elbow, and discreetly led them out of the chapel. He caught one last glimpse of Philippe before the door of the chapel swung shut behind them. His arm was around the young man beside him, fingers toying with the boy’s blond hair. He hadn’t noticed Chevalier’s disappearance. 

 

~

 

A bit of sunlight filtered through the dense clouds outside LaFayette’s bedroom window. The pane was open, letting in the sweet smell of the gardens, their blossoms stimulated by rain. 

Chevalier focused on the intricate scroll-work of the window frame as LaFayette’s fingertips traced the dip of his spine. His skin prickled with goosebumps, an automatic response just like all the others that had played out in this hour past despite his disgust and hatred of the man in bed beside him. His release was still drying in the sheets, taunting him with his own inability to fight. 

_ The life of a debtor is no life at all.  _ He thought, bolstering himself against the humiliated rage of his mind and body. If LaFayette made good on his promise, it would all be over for him. Debtor's prison was a much worse fate than what he now grappled with. 

“You are so beautiful in repose.” LaFayette murmured, bending to plant a kiss on his shoulder. 

Chevalier drew in a trembling breath. “I despise you … with every fiber of my being.” 

It felt good to say it, though it little mattered. LaFayette was not bothered by things so trivial as insults. 

Indeed, he chuckled as if he had just been told an amusing joke. 

“You hate me, but I have just given you a release so powerful you were screaming for it not to end.” He said, stroking Chevalier’s hair back from his neck. He dropped a row of kisses there as his palm slid down Chevalier’s forearm to retrieve his hand. He laced his fingers through Chevalier’s, and lifted his palm to lay another kiss against the inside of his wrist. 

Chevalier twisted his hand free, and sat up. He snatched his trousers from the end of the mattress, and shoved his feet into them. 

“May I go now?” 

LaFayette rolled onto his back, and laced his fingers behind his head. “Yes, of course. You are not my prisoner.” 

“Aren’t I?” 

He didn’t look back to see LaFayette’s smirk as he located each discarded piece of clothing, and pulled them back on. He found his shoes halfway across the room, and bent to put them back on. 

“When do you imagine you will hear back from India?” He asked. 

“Any day now.” LaFayette said. “Are you eager to be rid of me?” 

Chevalier turned to cast him a thin smile. “More than you know.” 

“We cannot always have what we wish for. I have considered staying here, in France, for a little while once this deal is concluded - here at the palace, in fact.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Louis has offered me rooms here.” LaFayette said, rising from the bed. He tossed the sheet aside, and swaggered toward Chevalier naked. “This room, actually. Yours is just down the hall, isn’t it?” 

“But … but your businesses are not here in Paris.” Chevalier whispered, “Why stay here?” 

“My businesses are managed by proxy, as are all noblemen’s. I can stay wherever I like, for whatever reason I choose.” 

Chevalier took a stumbling step back as LaFayette approached, his head tilted down in a devilish smile. 

“For how long?” He asked, his voice trembling. 

“As long as I need.” 

“For what?” 

LaFayette reached up to touch Chevalier’s cheek. Chevalier pressed his eyes shut, waiting for the moment the caress would turn brutal. Instead, LaFayette let his words do the cutting. “For me to break you, darling.” 

Chevalier slowly opened his eyes as LaFayette’s fingertips retreated from his cheek.

 LaFayette walked back to the bed, and sank down against the pillows. He waved a dismissive hand. 

“Go, now. Run back to him while you can.” 

Chevalier stood frozen in his place for only a second longer before turning to flee the room. Once in the hallway, he paused to compose himself. A group of young women walked down the hall, murmuring their “good days” as they passed him. Arranging a smile on his face, he muttered a reply. 

When they were gone, he rushed down the corridor and around the corner where the palace was empty and quiet. His quiet sob echoed against the arched, stone ceiling, and he pressed a hand to his mouth to silence the emotion. 

He now knew he had to be rid of LaFayette. Survival tactics until the India deal was in place would no longer do. He must act, or doom himself to a life of misery under the thumb of the Vicomte. 

A caged bird will thrash itself against the bars in an attempt to get free, but a lion will tear its way to freedom. He must be the lion, and not the bird. He must find his courage. 

 

~

 

Sunday was a holy day, and the salons remained empty; but once Monday dawned fresh and new, shedding itself of the dismal fog of the hours past, the leisurely activities of the palace resumed without hesitation. 

Having passed up dinner the night before, Chevalier woke famished. He ordered the servant to bring him breakfast, and ate from the platter in bed. When he polished off the meal, he rose and dressed in his finest clothing. 

Standing in front of the mirror, he pinched his cheeks to bring some life back to them. There was a dull look of despondency in his eyes that must be driven out. He knew what he meant to do today, and he could not do it looking as if he were one step from the grave. 

He grabbed the pitcher of wine the servant had brought in with breakfast, and poured himself a stout glass. When he had downed the glass, he returned to the mirror to criticize his appearance. His cheeks were flushed from the wine. Slightly inebriated was all the better than partially deceased. 

He swung his jacket over his shoulders, and left the room. 

As he made his way down the corridors toward the salon, he was met by a friend, the Madame de Arbois and her entourage. 

“Good day, Chevalier.” She said, waving for her ladies to wait for her. 

“Madame.” Chevalier said, bending to kiss her hand. “I was just on my way to the salon. Do you care to join me?” 

“Certainly.” Agnes said, looping her arm through his. “I have not seen much of you lately, my dear. Is our lovely prince keeping you occupied?” 

“Very.” Chevalier said, “We were away in Versailles for almost a week hunting.”   
“You were invited to hunt with the king’s party?” Anges asked, her head tilting back in laughter. “I can scarcely imagine it.” 

“No, no. His Highness went hunting; I stayed at the lodge, keeping the bed warm.” 

Agnes descended into another bout of laughter as they continued down the hall. She flipped her fan open, and waved it over her flushed cheeks. 

“You are ever so scandalous, Chevalier.” 

“How else would I keep myself preoccupied?” 

“How, indeed?” 

They reached the salon doors, and Chevalier was pleased to see that a great number of nobles were already engaged in gossip and drink at the noon hour. 

“We must catch up.” He said, showering Agnes with a warm smile. “What is the gossip about our guest, the Vicomte de LaFayette?” 

“There has been much talk.” Agnes said, keeping her voice low as they entered the salon. “Mostly among the young women who are looking to marry.” 

Chevalier struggled to keep his smile afloat. “Indeed? They find him desirable?” 

“They find his wealth desirable.” Agnes replied. 

She pulled them to a stop at the table decorated with a variety of wine and treats. She plucked a chocolate from among them, and popped it into her mouth. 

“Well, I do imagine he would make a fine husband since he is always abroad.” Chevalier said. 

“Yes, husbands are of the most benefit when they are absent.” Agnes agreed, chuckling around a mouthful of chocolate.

“I hear that he has been to nearly every part of the world.” Chevalier said. “China, Spain, India,  most recently in Holland, being entertained in De Witte’s court no less …” 

“Holland, you say?” Agnes echoed, her eyebrows arching. “What did he have to do with the Dutch?” 

“I do not know. I heard it.” Chevalier replied. He discreetly watched Agnes’ expression as he inspected the treats laid out on the table. 

The Madame de Arbois was no fool. She may have married into her husband’s trading business, but she had learned the politics of the occupation as well. He had happened upon exactly the right person to begin this thread of deceit. Not only was she smart, she was also fond of gossip. He had no doubt his little remark would be out to the entire salon by day’s end. 

“I did hear that he has not set foot on French soil in some time.” Agnes said. 

“Ten years or more, some say. What Frenchman stays away from his country for so long?” 

Agnes slapped him in the shoulder with her fan. “You speak dangerously, Chevalier.” 

“I’m only saying … it makes one wonder where his loyalties lie.”  Chevalier said, extracting a string of ripe grapes from the table. 

“Yes, but he is in good favor with the King.” 

“It’s idle chat. I’m certain there’s no validity to it. You know how people love to gossip.” 

Agnes frowned, her gaze lingering curiously on him. “Where did you say you heard it?” 

“I do not recall. I must have been well into my cups by that point.”  Chevalier said, popping a grape into his mouth. 

Agnes’ gaze wandered the room, perusing the unaware nobles chatting and playing cards. She was deciding who among them could have started this rumor, and Chevalier’s indifference only fanned the flame of her curiosity. 

“Come.” Chevalier said, offering his arm to her. “Let’s play some cards. I feel lucky this morning.” 

 

~

 

Philippe did not see much of Chevalier in the days following Sunday mass. He had looked for him after the ceremony, but he was nowhere to be found. He had disappeared without taking communion. 

Lying in bed that Tuesday evening, Philippe told himself to put the Chevalier from his mind. It seemed quite obvious that Chevalier was avoiding him, though Philippe did not blame him. He was ashamed of how he had acted that evening in the hall when he had screamed and smashed his glass like a child. He could easily dismiss it as drunken recklessness, but he’d acted of his own volition. 

Now, the hurt in his chest was beyond the realm of the initial betrayal. Perhaps, on another day not so long ago, they would have reconciled by now, but there was something different about Chevalier. His eyes did not hold the light they once did, nor his cheeks their vibrancy. When Philippe saw him in the salon, he was like an actor on a stage, playing out a character that he did not believe in. The truth was yet to come to light, and with it, forgiveness.

Philippe pulled the sheets over his head, and shut out the thoughts. He rose the next morning, and stood before the mirror, assuring his reflection that today would be different. He would think only of himself, and not so many days off, he had promised himself a beautiful little villa in Saint-Cloud. 

He dressed for the day, and walked across the palace to the council chambers where he knew he would find both Louis and the queen, the two people who could grant him his wish. When he arrived, the doors were shut, and the guards stood watch. 

“I would speak to my brother.” Philippe said. 

“The council is in session.” The guard replied. “You must wait.” 

“Very well.” 

He lingered by the door, his ears straining to hear what was being said. He took whatever chances were afforded him to learn of what went on in the council chambers with the hopes that one day, Louis and his mother would see his potential as a member. 

The voices that drifted from beyond the door now were raised in conflict. Philippe could catch only bits and pieces of the conversation. 

“Where did this rumor originate?” Louis asked. 

“In the salon, as they all do.” Colbert replied. 

Philippe paused his pacing, and leaned closer to the door as his mother’s voice, much quieter than the men, fell below his scope of hearing. 

Louvois was the next to offer his opinion. “It is a rumor and nothing more.” 

“Yes, but how can we be certain he is not also entertaining the Dutch?” Louis pressed. 

“He is a Frenchman!” Louvois exclaimed. 

“Some Frenchmen are traitors. Not all are loyal to the crown.” One of the other council members said. “And LaFayette seems to me more loyal to India than to us at this moment. Why not also the Dutch?” 

“We should question him.” Colbert said. “How better to root out than the truth than directly?” 

“If he is a traitor, he will surely have a lie composed.” The other member said. “We should search his rooms while he is away.” 

“Stop, all of you.” Queen Anne’s voice at last rose above the rest. “I will not have this council descend into discord due to some fanciful gossip in the salons. We will not be ruled by this rumor. LaFayette has not given us any reason to doubt him.” 

“I agree.” Louis said, “Our deal is already in progress. We must secure India. We will proceed with caution, but I question any rumor originating in the salon. Now, if that is all, I think this meeting has endured long enough.” 

There was a rumble of agreement before Philippe could hear their chairs scraping back, and the thud of footsteps approaching the door. He stood back as the doors of the council chambers opened, and the members exited, each of them speaking in hushed tones to one another.

 Philippe could easily parse those who believed the rumor from those who didn’t. Most of them had friends in the salons, spouses even. People whom they trusted more than a stranger coming from India after years of absence from France. 

Philippe himself wondered at the truth of the story. He did not trust the man, not as far as he could have thrown him. Perhaps he was not only a scheming villain, but also a traitor. 

As the last council member left the chamber, Philippe let himself inside. 

His mother was still seated at the table while Louis peered out the window in deep thought. 

“Philippe.” Queen Anne said, rising from her chair.

“Mother.” Philippe said, “Louis. I’ve come with a request.” 

Louis turned from the window, his brow furrowed. “A request?” 

“When we visited Hervart’s villa in Saint-Cloud, I was enchanted by it. I would like to put in a request to purchase it, and the surrounding grounds.” 

Queen Anne’s eyebrows rose. “A home, Philippe?” 

“Yes, Mother. I think it’s time I made one for myself, don’t you think?” 

“You  _ are _ of age.” Anne said, sinking back down to her seat with a heavy breath. 

She was not as strong as she had once been. She often tired from standing too long, or exerting herself in any way. It seemed that the previous discussion that passed through this chamber had already worn her down to the point of concession. 

Louis, though King, would not deny an edict by his mother. He turned back to the window, deferring the conversation to her. 

“Will you grant me this request?” Philippe asked. 

Anne smiled softly, and beckoned for her son to approach. 

Philippe crossed the room to sit on the chair beside her. She reached up to stroke his cheek, her dark, glassy eyes wandering over his hopeful expression. 

“Will it make you happy, my son?” 

“I think so.” Philippe whispered. 

“That is all I wish.” Anne said, patting his cheek. “For my sons to be happy.” 

“Thank you, Mother.” 

She nodded, her hand dropping to her lap. It held a slight tremor, and she clasped her other hand over it. 

“I will give this to you.” She said, “But, Philippe, a home is for a family. I believe that, and it is why I kept you close to me when you were a child, even when they told me to send you away.” 

“I will make a family.” Philippe said, glancing over her shoulder at Louis. “I know the day will come when the King will order me to marry.” 

“Mm.” Anne murmured, “But you will not love her.” 

“Do any of us love the ones we are ordered to marry?” 

Anne chuckled. “Ah, Philippe, you have always been wise beyond your years. My bright, little star.” 

Philippe ducked his head as she leaned over to kiss his forehead. 

“You will find a way to be happy.” She said. “Saint-Cloud will be sold to you.” 

“Thank you, Mother.” Philippe said. 

He rose from the chair, and bowed to Louis. “Your Majesty.” 

Louis barely glanced over his shoulder as Philippe retreated. Just before the doors shut behind him, Philippe could hear him speak. 

“You give him everything he asks for.” 

Anne replied, “And you have all of France, my son.” 

 

~

 

Chevalier was pleased to watch his rumor spread like wildfire through the palace. The nobles, intrigued by their visitor from the moment Louis announced his arrival, latched onto this piece of information like rabid dogs. Whether it was true or not didn’t matter. What mattered was that it was salacious. 

The expediency of the rumor, however, did not ease Chevalier’s worries. Gossip only mattered if it was effective in achieving the desired result. For Chevalier, the result he desired was for LaFayette to be ordered to leave the palace, and to never come back. The rumor needed traction, of which Chevalier had very little. 

He’d crafted the lie in the space of one day, and there were no facts to back up the tale he’d spun. Louis would likely require proof before he discarded LaFayette. Chevalier hadn’t yet come upon a solution to that problem. 

He stayed in the salons for the majority of the next few days, spurning the privacy of his rooms or the secluded corridors of the palace whenever he could. He feared that LaFayette might come upon him at any moment. The rumor was sure to get back to him, as all rumors do. 

Two days after he whispered the question in Agnes’ ear, he was in the salon playing cards when he saw Philippe enter the room. He was in a suit of pale gray with a white cravat and a red, velvet necktie. Chevalier, having not laid eyes on him for the past few days, let his gaze linger, famished at the sight of him. His stomach turned when Philippe’s gaze cut across the room, finding Chevalier’s with haste. He brushed aside the young noblemen flocking to him, and started across the room towards Chevalier. 

Chevalier turned his gaze back to his cards. He didn’t have a winning hand, and needed to get away from this table before anyone overheard their conversation. He hadn’t told anyone of he and Philippe’s falling out, and he intended to keep it that way. 

“I’m out.” He said, throwing his cards on the table. 

“We've only just started.” One of his companions said. 

“Forgive me if I don’t want to lose all my money to you today, Charles.” Chevalier said, tapping the young man on the nose. “I know you’re a cheater.” 

Charles chuckled as Chevalier left the table. He weaved around another table, and escaped to the other side of the room where fewer people were gathered. 

Philippe joined him at the windowsill. “Are you running away from me?” 

“No, of course not.” Chevalier said, tossing his hair breezily over his shoulder. 

“I wouldn’t blame you.” 

Philippe reached around him to pluck a glass of wine from the table. He took a sip, and sat down on the cushioned windowsill with a sigh. 

“You were drunk.” Chevalier said, “We all say things we do not mean when we are drunk.” 

“Yes, most of it was untrue.” Philippe said. 

Chevalier bit the corner of his lip. “Most of it?” 

“Yes.” Philippe said, casting him a scowl. “I’m still angry with you.” 

“Will you ever forgive me?”

“I don’t know.” Philippe rose from the windowsill, and turned to pin Chevalier with a penetrating gaze. “Will you ever stop lying to me?” 

“Lying? I don’t know what on earth you’re tal-”

“There! Exactly.” Philippe said, jabbing a finger at his chest. “You are a liar, my darling, and once you tell me the truth perhaps I will forgive you. But not now.” 

“If we’re going to fight, I suggest we take it out onto the lawn.” Chevalier said, “Or would you prefer the entire salon see when you start swinging at me?” 

Philippe gave a clipped sigh. “I don’t want to fight.” 

“Then we should choose another topic of conversation.” 

Philippe took a drink of wine, humming thoughtfully. “Ah, I know. Since you are so very close to him, I’m curious if all this talk about the Vicomte being in bed with the Dutch is true.” 

Chevalier turned his gaze to the window to hide the truth in his eyes. 

“I am not close to him, and I do not know if it is true.” 

“Well, it certainly is the talk of the salon.” 

“Does Louis know?” Chevalier asked, tempering his tone to one of indifference. 

“I heard them arguing about it when I went to the council chambers the other day.” Philippe said, “Half the council thinks they should interrogate him, the other half think it’s nothing but empty talk.” 

“Which half is Louis on?” 

“My mother thinks it’s empty talk, so he’s on her side, naturally.” 

“So .. nothing will come of it?” 

“Perhaps, not.” Philippe shrugged. “Why do you care?” 

“I don’t.” 

“Well, I can tell you, if it did turn out to be true, he wouldn’t be long for this place.” Philippe said, “Louis would have him drawn and quartered. I’m sure you don’t want to see that.” 

“Not particularly. You know how I hate the sight of blood.” 

Philippe studied Chevalier’s profile. Chevalier could sense that he was probing with his remarks. He knew something was wrong. 

Chevalier cleared his throat. “Why were you going to the council chambers the other day?” 

“I’m purchasing the villa in Saint-Cloud. I must have Louis’ approval to do so.” 

“Ah. I’m sure you’ll make it beautiful.” 

“I’m going to make it my home.” 

“Alone?” Chevalier asked, peeking a glance up at him. 

Philippe drained the last of the wine. “If I have to.” 

He set the wine glass down on the table, and turned to leave. 

“Philippe.” Chevalier’s fingers closed around Philippe’s wrist before he could stop himself. 

Philippe paused, his eyes searching Chevalier’s. They flickered with hope, waiting for Chevalier to speak, looking for the truth this time. 

Chevalier was inclined to give it to him, in this moment, because he was desperate. He hated sleeping alone, and he hated fighting over things he couldn’t explain. But telling the truth meant revealing every dark and shameful part of himself, the dismal, pitiful parts that he’d tried so hard to bury. It meant telling the whole truth, because once he began with the long and twisted story, he would not be able to stop. There would be no stopping the consequences if he spoke one word of the past. 

He squeezed Philippe’s hand, and averted his gaze to the floor. 

“I … I miss you.” He whispered. 

Philippe hesitated for a moment before pulling his hand free. 

Chevalier lifted his head just in time to see him walking away. 


	6. The Clash

Thursday came and went in stifled silence. The mood about the palace was tense, as if the whole court could sense the storm brewing around their guest. 

Chevalier went to bed drunk, unable to sleep with the worry gnawing at his belly. He hadn't seen LaFayette since their encounter on Sunday, but it was as if he could feel the man's cold eyes on him through the walls and curtains and windows - through every crack and crevice in the palace. 

He barely ate dinner, and woke with nausea churning in his belly and a dull pain throbbing against his skull. He had dreamt of rough hands clutching him from behind, of Lafayette's voice whispering malicious things in his ear, of his own body fighting the wave of need those deft, insidious hands could incite. He despised the thought of what happened on Sunday, and tried with all his might to banish it from his mind; but his subconscious was none too kind, nor gentle with his pain. 

The day passed slowly. The sun crawled gradually towards its pinnacle against a clear, blue backdrop of cloudless beauty. When the light began its descent, a pink and purple sunset transformed the sky. It stretched onward, as if all that beauty couldn’t be contained inside the scope of the human eye.  

Chevalier focused on the distant, dreamy skyspace as he walked the corridors from the salon back to his quarters. He had spent the majority of the day drinking and gossiping and playing cards, and had lost track of the time. Most of the nobles were back in their rooms by this time, leaving the halls vacant and absent of life. 

His heels clicked across the stone floor, solitary until they reached the last turn to his rooms. He nearly stopped walking when he heard the second pair of shoes join the staccato of his own in the emptiness of the hall. He faltered for a moment, but the other person did not. 

Heart jolting into a sickened beat, Chevalier glanced over his shoulder as he continued his stride down the hall. His hasty glimpse afforded him only a moment to identify the owner of footsteps - but he didn't need a minute, not even a second. He recognized that stride, those eyes, that look. He would have recognized them anywhere. 

Chevalier broke into a run. He was to the door of his rooms in a few strides, but LaFayette was right behind him, a wolf lunging to close its teeth around his prey. His hands seized Chevalier’s shoulders, throwing him roughly against the door. Pressing his body into Chevalier’s, he pinned him against the door. 

“Please, don’t hurt me.” The choked whisper rushed to Chevalier’s lips, an instant reaction ingrained into his mind. 

“Don’t hurt you?” LaFayette echoed, his breath rasping hot against Chevalier’s cheek. “I know what you did, Lorraine. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.” 

Chevalier closed his eyes. He knew. Yes, of course, he knew. That conclusion had been inevitable. 

“I … I cannot.” He whispered. 

“Mm, just as I thought.” LaFayette said. “Reach down and open the door.” 

Chevalier shot a quick glance down the hallway, but it was empty. No spectators, no interruptions. He was left at LaFayette’s mercy. 

Drawing in a steadying breath, he curled his fingers around the door handle and eased it open. 

Entangling his fingers in Chevalier’s hair, LaFayette urged him inside. He kicked the door shut behind them, and reached back to turn the lock.

“They searched my rooms this morning while I was away.” LaFayette said, his fist jolting around its grasp on Chevalier’s hair. “I did not see them, but I knew they were there. My things were out of order. You started that nasty little rumor about the Dutch, didn’t you?” 

Chevalier hesitated, swallowing against the dry lump forming in the back of his throat. Delaying to answer would only serve to enrage LaFayette, but admitting to what he had done could equally incite further violence. 

LaFayette’s fist yanked viciously in his hair,  igniting a wave of pain across his scalp, and forcing him to his knees on the hardwood floor. A whimper of pain surged against the back of his throat, but he clamped his mouth shut over the reaction. Crying out now would only encourage LaFayette’s taste for his suffering. 

“Answer me!” LaFayette shouted, yanking his head back. 

Ignoring the needle-like pain enveloping his scalp, Chevalier lunged against LaFayette’s grip on his hair, and clawed at his wrist. His nails sunk into LaFayette’s flesh until he could feel bone, but LaFayette’s fist closed tighter in response. He wrenched Chevalier’s head back, jolting free the whimper crowding at the back of Chevalier’s throat. 

Chevalier’s eyelids sprang open at the touch of LaFayette’s other hand, stroking with dichotomous gentility against his cheek. 

“Look at me.” LaFayette whispered, his voice holding a dangerous tremor. 

Pursing his lips over a building cry, Chevalier shifted his gaze upward, through the dense shadows, to find LaFayette leering down at him. His face was etched with trembling rage, a visage that Chevalier had once known too well. 

“Do you know what you’ve done?” LaFayette asked, his fingertips pausing against Chevalier’s chin. “Do you know what you’ve threatened?”

Chevalier drew in a shaky breath, and blinked against the sting in his eyes.  

“Yes.” He whispered.  “And if what I’ve done rids me of you, then I do not care what becomes of the King’s deal with India.” 

LaFayette nodded, absording Chevalier’s response with a thin smile. “You always have been a self-serving little rat.” 

“And you an evil, self-serving bastard.” 

Silence gaped between them for a long moment, shattered only by LaFayette’s slow inhale. Chevalier recognized this icy calm before the raging storm, for he had already lived this scenario many times before. LaFayette thought long and hard before striking; he thought about how best to go about inflicting the pain. He thought about actions and consequences, and in this moment, he undoubtedly deemed this confrontation, hidden in the privacy of Chevalier’s quarters, to be of little risk. 

He released Chevalier’s hair, offering the thought of escape for a single second; but his hand was quick to come back down, striking Chevalier back-handed across the cheek, which he had only moments ago softly caressed. 

The power behind the slap flung Chevalier to the ground. Pain exploded across his face, and stars floated behind his staggering eyelids. A high-pitched whine grew to a roar in his ear as he struggled to get his hands and knees underneath himself. 

LaFayette came into view through the disheveled curtain of his hair. The dense shadows of him took shape through the patchy darkness fluttering across Chevalier’s vision, leaning closer until they were nearly eye-to-eye. LaFayette seized him by the crown of his hair, dragging him closer. 

“I told you, dearheart …” LaFayette whispered. “I will break you.” 

Chevalier’s eyes slammed shut as he saw LaFayette’s fingers curling into a fist. He tried to wrench himself away, but LaFayette’s fist anchored itself in his hair, holding him in place as his other hand swung. His knuckles landed against the corner of Chevalier’s mouth, sending fresh pain ricocheting through his skull. 

LaFayette released him, letting his body fall like a sack of wheat to the ground. Chevalier blinked against the darkness encroaching upon his vision. He could taste blood in his mouth, the metallic slickness sluicing down the back of his throat and past his lips. 

“Did you not believe me?” LaFayette demanded, nudging Chevalier’s trembling body with the toe of his boot. 

Chevalier managed a groan that was neither a response nor an argument. He reached up with numb fingers to feel the blood slicking his chin. 

LaFayette fumed above him, his hands curled into fists at his sides. “You best believe me now.” He whispered, his voice etched with rage. Drawing back he foot, he landed the toe of his shoe in the pit of Chevalier’s stomach with all the power of his rage. 

Chevalier gasped, doubling over against the surge of pain and nausea that seized his belly. He thrust out a shaking hand to ward off another blow, and scrambled to pull his knees under himself. 

“Wait … wait …” He gasped. 

Ignoring his plea, LaFayette swung his fist again. His knuckles connected with a sickening thud that echoed through Chevalier’s head. The jolting pain, so intense it was nearly cold, burst across his nose. He tumbled onto his back, unable to stop his momentum of his body captivated by the throbbing pain, and the lights pulsing behind his eyelids. He felt the back of his head hit the floor, but all he could think about was the blood gushing from his nose. There would be no concealing the results of this beating tomorrow, no avoiding the black and blue trauma of a hand trained in a lifetime of abuse. 

Chevalier cracked his eyelids open to see LaFayette standing over him. Total darkness has fallen over the room, save for the pale white of the moon that now wreathed LaFayette’s menacing stature. 

He bent over to grasp Chevalier by the front of his jacket, and lifted his limp body from the floor to coolly peruse the damage he’d done. 

“You have been left off your leash far too long, Lorraine.” He said, smearing his thumb through the blood dribbling down Chevalier’s cheek. “You had forgotten what discipline tasted like. Believe me, when I’m through with you, you will not forget again.” 

Hooking his arm under Chevalier’s armpits, he lifted him from the ground, and dragged him toward the bed. 

Chevalier shook his head, struggling to rid his eyes of the light spiraling across his vision. Pain hammered through his skull, ending streams of thought and calls to action before they could even begin. His body swayed against LaFayette’s as they weaved toward the bed, drawing ever closer to the final humiliation LaFayette demanded. 

LaFayette tossed his limp body against the sheets, and left him there as he wandered to the closet. 

Chevalier rolled over, pawing his hair back from his face. He scooted back across the mattress as LaFayette picked one of the canes from his collection, and measured its weight in his hand. 

“Wait …” He whispered, the word a strangled whimper in the back of his throat. Tears rushed hot to his eyes as he scanned the room, searching for an escape or the nearest implement with which to defend himself. 

LaFayette turned, and marched toward him, gripping the cane between both hands. 

“Wait, wait!” Chevalier cried, throwing his hands up in defeat. “Rene, please, I’m begging you.” 

LaFayette chuckled at the familiar use of his name, yet was undeterred. He grabbed Chevalier by the ankle, and yanked him back across the bed on his stomach. 

Chevalier grabbed wildly at the sheets to pull himself away, but the silk bedding yielded like butter beneath his fingers. 

“Rene, wait! Listen to me!” Chevalier shouted. 

He twisted against LaFayette’s grip on his ankle, and succeeded in flipping himself onto his back just as he reached the edge of the mattress. Knees colliding with LaFayette’s chest, he came to a jarring stop face-to-face with his former lover, his tormentor. 

“Listen.” He whispered, fighting back the shudder enveloping his lungs. 

He slowly opened his knees to allow the press of LaFayette’s hips between them, and reached out a trembling hand to touch his chest. 

“Listen.” He repeated in a choked whisper, “You don’t have to do this. I’ll do whatever you want …” 

LaFayette stared down at him, his gaze guarded and distrustful. The wild gleam in his eyes had only diminished by a fraction, but Chevalier could feel the dim pulse of his cock springing to life.  

“I know what it is you want.” Chevalier whispered. 

His fingers slid down LaFayette’s chest to the front of his breeches, where he tugged at the buttons keeping his burgeoning erection at bay. 

LaFayette’s nostrils flared at the brush of Chevalier’s fingers nurturing his desire. He let the cane drop to the ground, where it landed with a thud that eased Chevalier’s fears by only a measure. 

“Let me touch you.” He murmured, sliding open the buttons of LaFayette’s trousers. “Feel you … Taste you.” 

LaFayette’s eyes fluttered shut as Chevalier laid the fabric open, and reached in to clasp his swelling cock. A groan escaped his mouth, and he shifted closer, his cock thrusting into the circle of Chevalier’s palm. 

“Yes.” He rasped, his fingers closing around Chevalier’s elbow, urging his hand to move faster. His other hand reached up to clutch Chevalier’s cheek, his thumb smearing blood across his lower lip and chin. 

Chevalier pumped his hand along the fully hard length as he shifted off the edge of the mattress to the floor. Immersed in pleasure, LaFayette allowed him to guide their movements until he was seated against the bed, and Chevalier was kneeling on the floor between his thighs. 

Chevalier pushed his breeches aside, and guided the hard tip to his mouth. As he flicked his tongue against the head, he reached down with his free hand to feel across the floor. His fingertips brushed against the shaft of the discarded cane, and he closed his fist around it.  Shifting his gaze up, he watched LaFayette’s eyes slide shut in pleasure. He licked his lips, drew in a deep breath, and took the cock deep in his mouth. As he slid down, lower and lower, he gradually pulled his lips back. For a brief moment, it was an act of submission, an act of survival just like all the others before it, and for a moment, LaFayette was groaning in exquisite pleasure; and here, just as Chevalier was certain his defenses were entirely lowered, he let his teeth sink in. 

Those moans of pleasure turned to a howl of pain, and then rage, but it was already far too late. Chevalier ripped his mouth away, and lunged to his feet, swinging the cane upward to grasp it with both hands as the rounded handle struck LaFayette across the cheek. 

Chevalier didn’t stop to see him fall to his knees in pain. He ran to the door, and thrust the entire weight of his body into it as he wrenched the handle open. He spilled out into the hallway where the arched, stone ceiling captured his panicked, rasping breaths and the clatter of his heels fleeing down the corridor. 

He flung a glance over his shoulder to see LaFayette stagger to the door, blood spilling from his mouth. He clung to the door handle with one hand, and gripped his wounded groin with the other. 

Chevalier swung his gaze back to the hallway ahead, focused solely on escaping this moment alone, and not on the consequences sure to come. 

“Lorraine!” LaFayette’s voice bellowed from behind him, echoing through the hallway until it was as the voice of ten incensed men. “Lorraine, you cunt! This isn’t over!” 

Chevalier rounded the corner, and kept running, his heart pounding like a stampede of wild horses in his chest. He could hear LaFayette’s shouts reverberating through the halls, the angry notes overlapping one another until it was nothing more than the distant rumble of thunder. 

He didn’t stop running until he reached the corridors of the royal family, where one door in particular had remained shut to him for too long now. 

He stood in front of the door for a long moment, composing himself, calming his breathing, telling himself to simply knock. It was such a small, easy thing. He had knocked on this door countless times, and flung himself into the arms of his lover. But tonight, it was not easy, nor was it simple. Once Philippe opened this door, everything would change. He must explain the blood and bruises on his face; he must explain why he was here and not anywhere else; he must explain these past few weeks, the lies he had told, LaFayette, the past, everything.  _ Everything.  _

These revelations nearly made Chevalier flee once more, but only one made him stay  - he had nowhere else to run to. Now that he had defied LaFayette, he risked being exposed as a debtor to Louis. Philippe was the only one who could protect him. 

Chevalier raised his fist and knocked. 

 

~

 

Philippe had been invited to a party by his friend Pascal, who on any other night he would have been delighted to spend time with. Tonight, he declined. He’d spent a majority of the last few days drowning his sorrows in drink and diversion, and decided he’d had his fill of wine to last a month. 

He opted instead for a quiet night in his rooms, reviewing the plans for the extensions he’d ordered for the chateau in Saint-Cloud. On Philippe’s command, the architect had drawn up preliminary blueprints before the sale was even finalized; he wanted to waste as little time as possible renovating the home so that he could transport his life there. 

He had spent most of his childhood here in the palace, or at other homes his mother owned. Saint-Cloud would be something for himself, of his own creation, his own taste, and his own will. He’d even begun his own sketches of the interior design which he hoped would one day rival even the Palais-Royale. 

It was almost midnight when his focus on the plans was interrupted by a knock on his door, so quiet he thought at first he’d imagined it. When it came a second time, he rose from his chair, and strode to the door. 

“Who is it?” 

There was a beat of silence before the diminutive reply. “It’s me.” 

Philippe pulled the door open, preparing a defensive stance. His rising annoyance, however, came to a dead halt when he laid eyes on his lover. 

Chevalier’s mouth and nose were covered in half-dried blood that dribbled down his neck to stain the white collar of his shirt. A dark lump was forming beneath his right eye. His hair fell in tangled curls around his cheeks, and he was shaking with every breath. Tears welled against his eyelids as Philippe stared at him in horror. 

“May I come in?” He asked, his voice wobbling. 

Philippe stood aside, and Chevalier limped into the room, one hand clutching his side. 

“What’s happened to you?” Philippe asked, shutting the door behind him. 

Chevalier paused in the middle of the room. His hand curled into a fist at his side until the knuckles turned white. 

“I’ll tell you.” He said, his voice quiet and raspy. “But do you have some wine first?” 

“Yes, of course.” 

He found two glasses, and poured them each a drink. Chevalier took the proffered glass in his trembling fingers, and lifted it to his mouth. He winced as the glass pressed against his lower lip where the flesh was split. When he had drained the cup, he sat down heavily in the  chair at Philippe’s desk, and expelled a ragged sigh. 

“I should fetch the doctor.” Philippe said.

“No!” Chevalier lunged forward to clutch his wrist.

Philippe frowned, searching Chevalier’s battered face with a rising mix of confusion and concern. 

“No, I …” Chevalier said, softening his tone. His fingers loosened around Philippe’s wrist. “It looks worse than it is … truly.” 

“Very well."  Philippe said. “Let’s at least get you cleaned up.” 

Chevalier nodded. 

Philippe’s mind raced over the possibilities as he found a clean handkerchief, and brought the small basin of water from his vanity. It wouldn’t be the first time that Chevalier had gotten himself into a row over a game over cards, or simply by opening his obnoxious mouth, but the knot forming in Philippe’s stomach told him the source of these wounds was something much more serious - something, perhaps, that pertained to Chevalier’s mysterious behavior for the past several days. 

“Well, you’ve had your wine.” Philippe said, “Out with it.” 

Chevalier’s gaze darted away from Philippe’s. His fingers toyed anxiously with the lacy embroidery of his sleeve. 

“I don’t know that I much care to go over it.” He whispered.  

Philippe tucked his fingers under Chevalier’s chin, and gently turned his face toward him. Bloodshot green eyes darted away from his probing gaze as he dipped the corner of the handkerchief into the water. 

“If you tell me who’s done this, you know I will see them punished, and dispensed from court.” Philippe said. 

He dabbed the cloth softly against Chevalier’s lip. 

Chevalier winced, and squeezed his shut. “Knocking on your door, I wondered …” 

“Wondered what?” 

“If you would still go to such lengths for me.” 

Chevalier opened his eyes to meet Philippe’s. There was a glistening resilience behind the hurt, a ghost of the willful spirit that had been absent in him for much of the past few weeks. 

Philippe focused on dabbing the blood from his chin. 

“You shouldn’t.” He said. 

“You seemed quite angry with me last we spoke … rightly so.” 

“I wasn’t angry; I was confused.” 

Chevalier gave a mirthless chuckle. “You seem to forget, I know you quite well.” 

Philippe sighed, and dipped the handkerchief into the water to rinse out the blood. 

“Perhaps I was, but how am I to remain angry with you when you come to my door looking this way?” 

Chevalier reached up to cradle Philippe’s wrist, pausing the motion of the handkerchief against his bloody cheek. 

“I didn’t come here to win you back. I came here because I didn’t have anywhere else to go.” 

Philippe withdrew his hand, and dropped the handkerchief into the water. He watched as red plumed from the cloth, curling outward to stain the water. Whatever Chevalier’s intention, he could no longer cling to the bitterness he’d allowed to engulf him after that night in Saint-Cloud. He held himself back from falling to his knees, and pulling Chevalier into his arms, begging him to never leave again. 

“You’re all I have, Philippe.” Chevalier whispered, his voice shaking as if it would buckle once more. “And I’ve ruined it.” 

Philippe clenched his jaw as Chevalier’s fingers curled around his hand, dragging it to his face. He pressed his forehead to Philippe’s knuckles while emotion stole away his voice, and his shoulders began to shudder. 

Philippe resisted for a brief moment before he allowed himself to be pulled closer. He reached down to gently cradle the back of Chevalier’s head. 

“Tell me who it was.” Philippe whispered. 

Chevalier shook his head. 

Philippe twisted his fingers out of his trembling embrace, and palmed Chevalier’s cheek. He lifted Chevalier’s head, and bent down to gaze into his glistening eyes. 

“Tell me.” 

“Please … not tonight.” Chevalier whispered, his fingertips tracing Philippe’s cheek. 

“When?” Philippe asked, impatiently. 

“In the morning.” 

“In the morning?” 

Chevalier nodded. “Yes. I promise I will tell you, but not now.” 

“Fine.” Philippe allowed. “But I will hold you to it.” 

Chevalier swallowed thickly, and swiped at the tear spilling down his cheek. “Yes.” 

Philippe withdraw his hand, but Chevalier was quick to grab onto it once more. Rising from the chair, he tugged Philippe back to him. 

“Wait.” He whispered, gently grasping Philippe’s hip. “Don’t go.” 

Their hips rested against one another in familiar repose, as if their bodies had been made for this embrace. It stirred a warmth and a longing deep inside Philippe beyond the realm of need and sex, something far more intimate and human. 

“Let me stay with you.” Chevalier said, cautiously lifting pleading eyes to Philippe’s. 

Philippe swallowed hard, the back of his throat suddenly aching with a hunger he couldn’t ignore. It had been only a little over a week since they’d last touched this closely, yet to his body, it felt like an eternity had passed. Need swarmed in his belly, carrying a tremble out into his limbs, to his fingertips which itched with a need to grasp and feel. 

He closed his eyes to center himself, and to remind himself that his anger was justified; to remind himself that he shouldn’t be so easily persuaded. Yet, he felt his defenses already beginning to crumble when the warm wash of Chevalier’s breath heralded the velvet press of his lips against Philippe’s neck, where his pulse began to climb. 

Philippe clutched Chevalier’s hips, holding them apart for a trembling moment. His eyelids shifted open, catching the desperate caress of Chevalier’s gaze, both brutal and gentle in its need. 

“This isn’t wise.” Philippe said, tearing his eyes away from that look that was surely going to end him. 

“Wise? No.” Chevalier muttered, his tone already disconnected from logic. 

His hips pushed against Philippe’s resisting hands to bring their bodies together once more. His mouth pressed harder and hotter this time, employing the powerful use of his tongue against Philippe’s stammering pulse. It worked its way upward until the warmth of his mouth and breath crowded just below Philippe’s jawline, slipping the subdued sound of need into his ear. 

Philippe bit back a moan as shivers spilled bright and hot down his spine. The simple caress turned his belly to liquid, molten need, inciting a stiff erection before he could protest. 

Grasping Chevalier’s waist, he tried once more to break them apart. 

“Do not do this to me.” He whispered, his voice raspy and already drained of fight. “You know I cannot resist.” 

“Yes, I know.” Chevalier murmured, drawing back for a single moment to glimpse the defeat in Philippe’s eyes. 

Philippe pressed his eyes shut, clinging onto the concept of his own willpower for a few fleeting moments. 

Chevalier’s fingers worked the hem of his shirt from his trousers, and slipped underneath. His fingers hesitated for a few, torturous seconds, building the anticipation clamping in Philippe’s belly before he allowed them to softly caress Philippe’s trembling flesh. 

Philippe’s grip bit into Chevalier’s sides as the bare brush of his fingers incited a clamor of need, driving the tempo of his pulse to a sudden, hammering beat. He pressed his mouth shut over a building moan. He tried not to quiver as Chevalier’s fingers deftly unbuttoned his breeches just far enough to allow his hand passage beneath the fabric. Chevalier’s palm slid down the shaft, thinly protected by his undergarments. 

“Oh, God …”  The twisted whimper of desire jolted from Philippe’s throat, breaking the stifling silence of muted need. 

It was all the response Chevalier needed to accept Philippe’s defeat. 

He dropped to his knees, both hands tugging the remaining buttons of Philippe’s trousers open. He pushed the fabric aside to grasp onto the swollen, throbbing flesh arching free of its restraints. He took Philippe directly into his mouth, and slicked him with a few quick strokes of his lips. 

Everything seemed to fall away as the soft, wet pressure of Chevalier’s mouth closed around him. He could feel his anger slip from his fingers like elusive sand. All thought of LaFayette, of Saint-Cloud, of bitterness and misunderstanding disappeared beneath a haze of need, leaving him with his stark arousal, sharper now that he had denied himself since that night in the chateau. 

Philippe braced himself against the edge of the desk as the pleasure took the strength from his knees. His fingers sank into Chevalier’s hair, urging the frantic motion of his mouth that was quickly driving him toward the edge. 

“Oh God-” Philippe panted, his hips arching back against the tide of pleasure already sweeping up through his chest.  “Oh, please …”

Chevalier’s mouth took him in and out deeply, building his need up from the ground and to the breaking point in a matter of moments. 

Fighting back the urge to simply fall into the pleasure unrestrained, Philippe pulled back with a cry. “Stop!” 

When they broke apart, his twitching cock popped free of Chevalier’s mouth, leaving him shuddering against the cool, empty air. He grasped the edge of the desk, fortifying his quaking knees. 

Falling back against his heels, Chevalier gazed up at Philippe with wide, fearful eyes. His mouth pouted silently for a moment before he spoke in a raspy whisper. “Do not try to tell me you don’t want this. I could feel it just now; you were set to burst.” 

Philippe glanced away, tamping down the mild surge of shame at his own lack of self-governance. It wasn’t enough to quell the need rising up through his chest, or to stop the instant reaction stitched into his body at the sight of Chevalier’s face, written with desire. 

“No, I do.” Philippe whispered, drawing in a shaky breath. “I just … I don’t want it  _ that  _ way.” 

Chevalier swallowed hard, a question rising in his eyes past the springing rejection. 

“I want it slowly.” Philippe said, his voice dropping to a needy whisper. “Long and deep.” 

The light in Chevalier’s eyes rekindled, hotter this time, shedding the fear and desperation. 

Philippe reached down to cradle his cheek, guiding him up to his feet. 

“I want you inside me.” He said, directing his gaze to his bed. “Over there.” 

“Mignonnet.” Chevalier whispered, clutching Philippe’s face between his hands. He drew Philippe to him, smothering him with a kiss rife and trembling with desire. His mouth tasted of blood and wine, but it was the aching hunger in the stroke of his tongue that captivated Philippe’s mind. Not even the question of Chevalier’s wounds could sever his path to satisfaction now. 

When their mouths separated, Chevalier’s thumb stroked his cheek attentively. His gaze seemed to swallow Philippe entirely, leading him already into a world of pleasure before they could even disrobe. 

“I will fuck you until you can’t breathe, darling.” Chevalier whispered, “Until you can’t think … or move … Is that what you want?” 

Philippe nodded, his voice lost to the encompassing grip of need bearing down through his chest and belly. 

Chevalier reached down to lace his fingers through Philippe’s, and lead him to the bed.

Philippe sank down to the edge of the mattress, and grasped Chevalier’s hips as their mouths joined in a deep caress. He slipped out of his vest, and tugged at his shirt. Chevalier leaned back to allow him to remove it, claiming Philippe’s lips once more the moment the shirt was sailing to the ground. 

He stroked a hand down Philippe’s chest and stomach to grasp the fabric of his trousers and tug them down. Philippe moaned into Chevalier’s mouth as he pulled the breeches off, and urged Philippe’s legs apart. Crawling onto the bed between Philippe’s legs, Chevalier laid him back against the pillows, and broke the kiss. 

He hovered over Philippe, his gaze bright and clinging in the dense shadows of the room. He began to divest himself of his clothing, beginning with his vest and shirt. 

Philippe admired his bare chest as he cast the garments aside, and reached down to pop open the buttons of his trousers. He cock tented the thin material of his breeches, making his need apparent before he could take them off. 

Philippe reached over to take the bottle of oil from the bedside table, eager to expedite their joining. Need gnawed through his groin as his cock lay rock hard against his belly; the depths of that need only intensified as Chevalier removed his trousers, revealing himself just as full and aching. 

Philippe held out the bottle of oil to him. 

Chevalier’s mouth curled in a smile as he took the bottle, and opened the lid. Guiding Philippe’s legs up against his chest, he bent scatter kisses down Philippe’s ankle while he wetted his fingers. 

Philippe focused on the captivating hunger dwelling in Chevalier’s eyes as slick fingers pushed into him. His body quivered around the penetration, reacting with a bolt of need that struck hard through his belly. Gasping, he grabbed onto a handful of the sheets to anchor himself as Chevalier’s fingers thrust languidly into him. 

“Oh, God …” Philippe moaned, his eyes slamming shut over the image of Chevalier smiling above him. His toes curled against the pleasure clamping down through his middle, and his cock thrashed in helpless throes of need against his belly. 

“Fuck … please …” He panted, forcing his eyes open to find Chevalier over him. 

Chevalier’s fingers pumped wetly into him, easing him open and bearing down on the tender depths of him all knotted up with arousal. 

“Yes, darling?” 

“Please-” Philippe rasped, shooting him a demanding gaze. “Fuck me.” 

The pace of Chevalier’s fingers came to a gradual stop, and eased out of him. He poured fresh oil over his cock, and spread it with a few strokes of his hand. 

Philippe bit at his lower lip with eager need as Chevalier’s glistening fingers slid over the length of his hard cock, and guided it up against Philippe’s hole. 

Philippe drew in a deep breath and let it out, allowing his body to go limp and malleable in Chevalier’s grasp. The blunt, hot pressure of his cock slid inside, traveling gradually forward until he was buried to the hilt. Philippe felt his body go weightless, yet alive, buoyant and sparking with pleasure that transported him from this room, from all the worries and cares of their recent troubles. 

He arched against the pillow as Chevalier’s hips rocked against him, building a slow, gyrating rhythm that ground deep against his quaking flesh. 

“God, yes …” Philippe moaned. 

Chevalier lifted Philippe’s leg over his shoulder, and shifted closer so that even the slightest thrust of his hips brought their bodies tightly together. His mouth pressed against the inside of Philippe’s knee, leaving traces of saliva and hot, gasping breaths embedded in Philippe’s skin.

“You are beautiful, mignonnet.” He whispered, his eyelids heavy with need. 

Philippe arched against him, fingers toying at his cockhead. Pre-cum dribbled from the tip as Chevalier’s cock rutted against him perfectly. 

“I missed this.” He panted, “I missed you … your prick, fucking me in two.” 

Chevalier’s low chuckle twisted into a groan as he hastened the rhythm of his thrusts. 

Seizing his cock in his palm, Philippe stroked himself, and moaned aloud at the pleasure that lurched bright and hot through him. His eyes slammed shut as the orgasm rushed toward him, briefly suspending himself in a moment of breathless weightlessness, before the pleasure struck him like the water breaking free of a dam. 

His body spasmed as release jetted from his cock, spilling pearly white across his chest. The orgasm clutched hard through his belly and chest, squeezing rhythmically, and milking every last drop from him. His mind blanked white with pleasure as his body soared, surging to the pinnacle of pleasure and clinging onto those moments of abandon, before sliding back down the other side into tangle of aching, sensitized flesh. 

Philippe’s eyes fluttered open to see Chevalier above him, thrusting quick and hard into him. Release dripped down his ribs as these final moments played out - Chevalier’s eager, rasping breaths, the fleshy smack of their bodies meeting, the wonderful friction mounting between them, the need clinging to them like shackles on otherwise free men. 

_ I’ve been a fool.  _ He thought, helplessly entranced. He would willingly walk back into those shackles if it meant spending every night after this one exactly the same way. His soft, pleasured mind cared not for consequences of the real world; the true joy of living was in this little fiction, propped up by loneliness, by need, by the security of another body claiming his own. 

As Chevalier came unraveled, and his thrusts broke off into stammered intervals, Philippe reveled in the wet heat filling him, the satisfaction in completion.

He reached out shaky fingers, humming with the song in his blood, to tug Chevalier’s limp body down against him. They sank down into the sheets in a pool of tingling, satisfied limbs, intertwined. 

They didn’t try to speak as peaceful silence settled over them. Philippe felt himself drifting in weightless, tingling satisfaction, verging on sleep he was so relaxed. He was limp, half-hypnotized by pleasure when Chevalier began to touch him again, reawakening need so recently sated. His body rolled complacently to Chevalier’s urging, and he found himself on his belly, the pillow tucked beneath his hips. Chevalier’s mouth followed the curve of his spine until it reached the swell of his backside, where it slipped into the warm, wet crevice to pleasure him with the slick caress of his tongue.

Philippe’s cock sprang back to life against the downy embrace of the pillow. A quiet, aching moan broke past his lips. He clutched onto the sheets as Chevalier’s mouth took him apart, bringing him to the edge before withdrawing. Philippe glanced languidly over his shoulder at the loss of sensation, but was quickly sated by the image of Chevalier rising to mount him once more. 

He grasped onto the sheets as Chevalier’s cock pressed into him, reducing him once more to a mass of quaking flesh and desire. This time, Chevalier fulfilled his every word, fucking into him slowly, thoroughly, until the desire was nigh unbearable. 

The hours passed on in like manner until they were both too exhausted to move, completely drained of release. They collapsed into a heap of satisfied limbs, entangled in one another’s arms as the moon crept on toward morning. 


	7. The Confession

Chevalier woke with a start, uncertain what had pulled him from the depths of sleep, but fully aware of the pain throbbing dully through his face and ribs. The sparse light of the morning crept past the curtains, casting a shaft of dewy sunbeams across Philippe’s slumbering figure. He was at peace, undisturbed by Chevalier’s restless turning. 

Chevalier buried his head beneath the sheets and searched for the respite he’d found in sleep, but his mind had wrenched itself fully from dreams. He threw back the sheets, and clambered from the bed to find the pitcher of water. His mouth was cotton dry, and tasted like blood and the sour glaze of wine.

He swallowed down two glasses of water to rid his mouth of the taste, and staggered to the mirror to look upon the damage. 

The bruising around his eye was much worse in the morning light. Not only was the flesh discolored, nearly black, but it was also swollen to the point that he appeared to be perpetually squinting. His lower lip was swollen as well, and marred by an ugly red slash where the skin had broken open. 

He turned to the side to investigate the bruising across his ribs where LaFayette had kicked him. This area had been at least protected by layers of clothing, and was more tender than bruised. The marks were faintly purple, yet no less disturbing. 

Chevalier’s gaze wandered back to the reflection of his face, positing a question in his mind that had no answer. 

_ How am I back here?  _

He had traveled most of Europe to escape LaFayette’s clutches, but it seemed that none of his efforts had mattered. He’d been easily discovered, and it appeared, easily manipulated back to that point of weakness, of submission, of cowering. 

He took little pleasure in the confidence he had mined to attack LaFayette the night before. It had been an instinct to protect himself, not a planned, coordinated revolt. He had seen the cane and the look in LaFayette’s eyes and fallen back upon the need that lies in all men’s hearts to preserve himself no matter the cost. It was no great, daring thing; in fact, it was rather stupid, as he knew LaFayette well, and the consequence of last night’s clash would undoubtedly be severe. 

Chevalier’s gaze shifted to the reflection of the bed behind him as the lump beneath the covers began to move. 

Philippe groaned as he came out of sleep, and reached a lazy hand toward the empty space beside him. When his fingers pawed at air, he lifted his disheveled head from the pillows and squinted across the room. 

“Oh, you’re up.” He mumbled. 

Chevalier rearranged a casual expression on his face, and strode across the room to him. 

“You’re never up before me.” Philippe said, propping himself up on his elbow. 

“I couldn’t sleep.” Chevalier said, crawling onto the bed beside him. 

Philippe sobered as the unspoken memory of what had been said and done in the hours past swelled between them. 

Chevalier averted his gaze. His heartbeat quickened as Philippe reached over to clasp his hand. 

“It looks worse than before.” Philippe observed. “You look as if someone mistook you for a punching bag.” 

“No, he knew perfectly well who I was.” 

“He?” 

Chevalier pressed his eyes shut, and drew in a steadying breath. It was much too early in the morning to be sick, but nausea churned in his stomach at the thought of telling Philippe the truth. 

“You promised me.” Philippe said. 

“I know.” 

“Is it so difficult?” Philippe pressed. “I’ve an idea already who’s responsible.” 

“Then why don’t you say?” 

“Very well. Was it the Vicomte?” 

Chevalier swallowed, and pressed his fingertips to the bridge of his nose. His eyes stung, threatening his defenses with collapse. It would take only one tear to fall; he had held it back for so long, he wondered just how small the disturbance could be before he crumbled entirely. 

“Was it LaFayette?” Philippe said, frustration hedging into his tone. 

Unable to speak, Chevalier nodded. 

“Why? Why would he do this?” Philippe demanded, throwing the sheets back angrily. He leapt up from the bed, and searched for his clothes. “No matter. I will kill him either way.” 

“You cannot do that!” 

Chevalier scrambled from the sheets as Philippe tugged on his trousers.

They met at the foot of the bed, Philippe’s eyes wild with rage, Chevalier’s with panic. 

“I do not care if he is an emissary between France and India.” Philippe said, his hand cutting dismissively through the air. “I do not care what weight his word holds with my brother. Your word is the only one that matters to me.” 

“Believe me, it brings me so much relief to hear you say that, but I cannot allow you go after him this way.” Chevalier said, seizing Philippe’s motioning hands between his own. “It will only make things worse. Trust me.” 

The storm of Philippe’s anger waned at the desperation in Chevalier’s voice. His brow furrowed, and mouth curled with disgust. “Is that what he would have you believe?” 

“Yes. And it is also the truth.” 

Philippe’s nostrils flared in a sharp exhale of frustration. “God … you’re right.” 

“The King will surely have my head if he discovers you’ve challenged LaFayette because of me.” Chevalier said, lowering his gaze to the floor. 

Philippe disentangled his fingers from Chevalier’s, and paced across the room, cradling his forehead in his hand. He paused at the other side of the room, his shoulders pulling back in a tense inhale. 

“I want to know why.” He said, quietly. “I want to know every detail.” 

“I assure you, you do not.” 

“ _ Yes-”  _ Philippe said, spinning around to jab a finger at him, “I do.” 

“You mean to humiliate me.” 

“I mean for you to tell me the truth.” Philippe said, striding back across the room to glare into his eyes. “I mean to be rid of these lies once and for all.” 

Chevalier nodded, though in his heart, he longed for the less valiant and stubborn side of Philippe - the side that would rather lie in the grass, reading books of poetry and eating fine desserts than rouse himself to motion. This side he spoke to now was the one who had challenged him to a sword fight on the lawn, and bragged of his prowess. 

“Very well.” He said, drawing in a deep breath. “Let me get dressed.” 

Philippe frowned. “Where are we going?” 

“To the chapel.” Chevalier said. “I would like to give my confession.” 

 

~

 

The priest was about the chapel when Philippe and Chevalier arrived. He bowed to Philippe, and offered a warm smile. 

“How can I be of service?” 

“You can leave.” Chevalier said, waving his hand. “Your services won’t be required.” 

The priest appeared confused, but bowed once more and took his leave. 

Philippe scrutinized Chevalier’s profile as they were left in the cavernous silence of the chapel. The very wisp of his breath echoed against the stone arches, bringing to life even these moments of reticence between them. 

“You said you wanted to give confession.” Philippe said, “You’ve just ordered the priest away.” 

“It is not him I want to give confession to.” Chevalier said, glancing over his shoulder at Philippe with a pointed gaze. 

“I’m no priest.” Philippe said, “You know it won't count, right?” 

“Yes, but a little unburdening is good for the soul even if it isn't to a priest, don't you think?" 

Before Philippe could answer, he strode across the chapel to the confessional box. He opened the door meant for the priest and motioned for Philippe to step inside. 

Philippe hesitated, a clawing sense of disquiet rising in his chest. He had demanded the truth, but this unusual request unsettled the staunch conclusions he’d drawn about LaFayette in the past few weeks. 

Chevalier’s gaze focused on the tiled floor, offering little indication of what was to come once he stepped into his side of the box. 

Philippe climbed inside, and the door swung shut behind him. He settled down on the bench, and reached up to tug the curtain open. The lattice-work stood between him and the confessor, allowing verbal communication alone. He wouldn’t be able to see Chevalier’s eyes when he spoke, and now that he was inside the priest’s box, he realized that distinction had been the goal. 

Chevalier’s shadowy figure ducked into the confessor’s side of the box, and Philippe heard the door latch shut behind him. He pressed a hand against the wood partition, sudden desperation to touch and feel his lover striking him hard against the breastbone. 

“Forgive me, for I have sinned.” Chevalier’s voice filtered through the lattice separating them, his recitation stilted. “It has been … a lifetime since I last confessed.” 

Philippe hesitated to play along with this charade, but he was urged to speak by the thought that he might not get the truth in any other way. 

“If we confess our sins, God will forgive us.” He replied, “Go on.” 

Chevalier’s drew in a raspy breath. “I accuse myself of the sin of untruthfulness …. Lying.” 

Philippe’s ears strained as silence lapsed between them. When Chevalier did not continue, he cleared his throat.   
“Is that all?” 

“No. My sins are many, and I fear all the time in the world does not leave space for me to confess them to you now.” 

Philippe’s gaze pressed to the partition, trying to find Chevalier’s features among the shadows. He had accused Chevalier of many things, but he had never heard them admitted so freely, even penitently. He thought momentarily of leaping out of the confessional and ending this piece of theater before it went any further.

“Chiefly among them,  lust and …” Chevalier broke off momentarily, drawing in a shaky breath. “Stupidity.” 

“The Good Lord also forgives stupidity.” Philippe said. 

_ As do I.  _ He thought, hastily; but perhaps he was only eager for them to return to their childish selves, full of wonder and joy at the unparalleled beauty of life in one another’s arms. He knew not what Chevalier meant to confess, whether he could forgive it or not; he knew only his longing for the happiness they had managed to achieve together in such a short time. 

“How shall I do my penance?” Chevalier asked. 

“I will tell you.” Philippe said, managing an even tone. “But first, you must tell me the exact nature of your dishonesty … as I demanded; and as you promised.” 

There was a beat of silence before Chevalier cleared his throat. “Very well.” 

Philippe waited, his heart thudding with sick anticipation. The jealousy that had brewed like a poison in his belly began to spill over into desperation, leaving an acrid taste in the back of his throat and a hollowness in his chest. A week ago, he would have seized upon the opportunity to order a punishment as he saw fit, but on this day he wanted only one thing - the truth. 

“You accused me of knowing him.” Chevalier said, his voice a faltering whisper. “And you were right; I did know him … in another life.” 

Philippe’s fingers curled around the edge of the wooden bench, reigning in the immediate impulse of anger. 

“How long ago?” He asked. 

“It was … five years ago that our affair first began.” 

Philippe’s eyes slid shut against the heat rapidly climbing his throat and cheeks. He felt as if an iron fist had seized his chest, violently shaking his heart from his ribs. The admittance was all he had suspected, yet hoped was not true. 

“Affair?” He echoed. “And how would you define the word ‘affair’? Do you define it as you define our relationship … or as you would a passing fancy?” 

Chevalier hesitated to reply, giving the seed of anger in Philippe’s mind room to grow. 

Philippe’s palm struck the wooden partition, shaking the box both on his side and on Chevalier’s. “Answer me.” 

“Philippe-”

“God, I should have known.” Philippe muttered, turning away from the partition to clutch his smarting hand. 

“I would not dare compare our relationship to yours and mine.” Chevalier said, the words now rushing freely, desperately. “Ours is one of equals, of tenderness and caring, and …” A taut moment of silence before the hopeful whisper echoed through the box. “ … of love.” 

Philippe rubbed his thumb across his palm, concentrating on the dull pulse of pain lingering there. 

“What was between Rene and I was more lust than love … and I was young and blind enough to confuse the two. He is not a kind and gentle soul as you are, Philippe; he is a wretched man who enjoys nothing more than watching the suffering of others … of me, in particular.” 

Philippe glanced up to see the outline of Chevalier’s hand pressed the lattice separating them. Despite his hurt at Chevalier’s betrayal, this confession doused the flame of his anger with ice cold water. It had not occurred to him that the bruises on Chevalier’s face might not be the first created by LaFayette’s hand, but an iteration of the past leaping forward to poison the present, and quite possibly, the future.

“What are you saying?” Philippe asked, hesitantly. 

Chevalier’s fingers retreated from the partition, and Philippe heard him draw in a raspy, fluttering breath. 

“I had hoped to never tell you of this.” He murmured. 

“Of what?”  Philippe urged, sliding across the bench to peer through the lattice. He could barely make out Chevalier’s profile, turned down toward his lap. 

“You will think me a fool … a coward.” 

“Never.” Philippe promised, vehemently, despite the doubt flickering in his mind. 

“How can you be certain before I even speak?” 

“Because, I know you. I know you are a man of character despite what others might think … despite how you try to deceive them with your frivolity and whimsy.” 

Chevalier’s mirthless chuckle was muffled beyond the panel separating them. 

Silence stretched on for several tense moments, in which all Philippe could hear was his own stammering heart, until Chevalier drew in a deep breath. 

“The first time he did it, I thought it was a joke … a game. I hit him back - not hard.” Chevalier’s voice dwindled to a whisper that held an empty ring of resignation. “I didn’t imagine what my life was about to become.” 

Philippe held his breath until his lungs ached, yet Chevalier did not continue. He pressed his hand to the partition. 

“Then?” He whispered. 

“Then he … he flew into a rage. I had never seen that kind of rage - the kind that makes you fear for your life. It was as if he’d become someone else, as if I had opened up that darkness inside him with a silly little slap on the cheek.”  He let out a forced chuckle, raw with the threat of tears. “I was too astonished to defend myself.” 

Philippe focused on the floorboards as he slowly processed Chevalier’s words. He had asked for the truth, every detail. In a sick, possessive way, he did want to know; in many other ways, he wished these past few days could be erased from his memory. The cruelty was that he could not - he must know now the entirety of the story. 

“Then what happened?” He asked, battling the tremor from his voice. 

Chevalier’s shoe scuffed against the floor as he shifted on the bench. He drew in a hitched breath. “I took him in my mouth … to ease the mighty burn of his rage.” 

Philippe knocked the door of the confessional open before Chevalier could continue. Leaping out of the box, he swung open the door on the other side, and leaned in to find Chevalier’s face among the shadows. 

Chevalier swiped at the tear tracing down his cheek. His eyes stood wide with horror, as if he were just realizing what he’d admitted aloud now that they stood face-to-face without the veil of confession between them. 

“So this is not the first time he has struck you?” Philippe said, the question erupting as more of a declaration. “And not the first that you have thanked him for it with your mouth.” 

Chevalier’s gaze darted toward the floor. 

Philippe’s fists curled at his sides, fighting to rein in the jealousy and rage streaking hot like cannonfire through his chest. 

“How many times?” The words ground past his clenched teeth, urging Chevalier’s gaze up from the floor. 

He blinked against the sheen of tears, and whispered, “Many times. More than I can count … or recall.” 

Philippe took an unsteady step back from the confessional, his hands hanging limply at his sides. All his anger deflated into a heap of disjointed dismay and disbelief. 

Yes, he had demanded the truth, but he had not been prepared for all that it entailed. This revelation meant that after nearly a year together, they still did not know one another as deeply as they had hoped; it meant that their relationship to this point had been nothing more than a charade, just as this confession was. And it meant that Philippe may never be able to bring the person responsible to adequate justice, no matter his position as prince and brother to the king. Only the king could banish the Vicomte, and the king cared only for his political alliances. If that realization were not yet enough to destroy him, still another seeped slowly and insidiously into his mind, darkening the image of his beloved to one of terrible deceit. 

Chevalier emerged from the confessional, his gaze focused on the smooth stone floor. 

“How did you escape?” Philippe asked. 

“We were in Italy, traveling. He was away from our lodgings, meeting with some other men. I seized the opportunity.  I took his money, and I ran.” 

“Did he not search for you?” 

“Yes. All over Europe for nearly a year before I came here to the Palais-Royale … to you.” 

Philippe’s gaze pivoted from the floor to Chevalier’s tremulous expression. Three quick strides took him back to where Chevalier stood, his eyes searching Chevalier’s for the bits of truth that had not yet been laid bare. 

“The first night we were together, you said you came to the palace with a specific purpose.” Philippe said. “Me.” 

Chevalier blinked, the glaze of fear returning to his eyes. 

“You singled me out.” Philippe whispered, his blood growing hot once more. “You seduced me.” 

“Philippe, you must believe me.” Chevalier whispered, clutching onto Philippe’s hands. “I came here lost and alone, but you have become everything to me. You have given me a life that I could never have dreamed of, and I am indebted to you for it.” 

Philippe yanked his hands free, and took a step back, breathing heavily. 

“Yes, I have. And I have unwittingly given you my protection from that abominable man!” He shouted, waving a finger at the doors of the chapel. “Admit it! I am nothing more than a shield to take the blows meant for you!” 

“No, Philippe, you are so much more than that!” Chevalier cried, clinging onto Philippe’s wrist as Philippe whirled around to escape the chapel. 

Despite Chevalier’s clinging grasp on his wrist, Philippe marched toward the exit, keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead. 

Chevalier stumbled behind him, his pleas echoing frantically through the chapel. “Philippe, I am begging you to believe me. That may have been my intention when I first arrived, but it was out of desperation! I never meant to mislead you. You must think me a liar in every regard, but none of the past eight months has been a lie for me!” 

Philippe turned to wrest his arm from Chevalier’s grip, but Chevalier fell to his knees, grasping onto his wrist with both hands. 

“All of it was real.” He cried, tears spilling down his cheeks. “Philippe, please ... you were real to me …  _ We … we  _ were real.” 

Philippe paused, his chest aching at the sight of Chevalier’s pain. He had never seen his lover more distressed, and the image was quick to brand itself into his mind. A sliver of doubt worked its way through him, tempting him to show mercy even if his jaded heart warned him not to. 

Too many times he had been subject to would-be “friends” who wanted nothing more than his money, and the credentials of being inside his circle. Too many times he’d been falsely touched, falsely wooed, falsely loved; but he still had the power to choose whether Chevalier was just another in a long line of discarded favorites, or whether his plea now rang true. 

The doors of the chapel swung open, interrupting his judgment before it could be cast. Two guards had escorted Bontemps, who now looked on their distressed scene with frigid indifference. 

“The king is requesting your presence.” He said. 

Philippe twisted his hand free of Chevalier’s. “I will be there in a moment.” 

“Not you.” Bontemps said. “The Chevalier de Lorraine.” 

Philippe’s gaze darted between the king’s valet and the Chevalier cowering tearfully on the floor. 

“I suggest you make yourself presentable.” Bontemps said, his eyebrow rising at Chevalier’s disheveled appearance. “You will see the king immediately.” 

Rising unsteadily from the ground, Chevalier wiped his face his with sleeve. He cast Philippe a wounded gaze before wordlessly crossing the chapel to join Bontemps. As they departed, Philippe let out a sigh. 

_ You cannot allow him to be thrown to the wolves.  _ He thought, damning his own tender heart. 

He marched out of the chapel to follow them, his heels ringing loud in the stillness of the air. The doors of the chapel swung shut behind him, sealing in solitude their secrets along with all the confessions that had come before. 

 

~

 

Sweat gathered beneath the heavy, silk layers of Chevalier’s shirt and jacket as he followed the two guards and Bontemps down the halls to the council chambers. The sickness that knotted in his stomach was not caused by fear, but by tepid anticipation. The spike had already been driven through his heart by Philippe; the worst had passed, and what was to come was just another in a long chain of dismal events perpetuated by LaFayette. 

He’d known as soon as he opened his eyes this morning that this moment would come; he’d known the moment he’d bitten down on LaFayette’s giddy flesh. 

When they reached the council chambers, Bontemps opened the door and motioned for Chevalier to go ahead of him. As he crossed the threshold, he saw Queen Anne seated at the table, and Louis standing to her left by the window. LaFayette was on her right, his hands clasped calmly behind his back. 

Their gazes met across the room, inciting a cold shudder of disgust and anger in Chevalier’s stomach. After all the pain and the beatings, LaFayette had never wounded him worse than in this moment; he had taken Philippe, and that was the harshest punishment of all. 

“Lorraine, good of you to come.” Louis said, turning from the window. He smiled thinly, his expression one of decisive annoyance. “I expect you already know what this meeting entails.” 

Chevalier bowed beneath the gaze of the king. “Yes, Your Majesty.” 

“The Vicomte de LaFayette has come to me with a troubling revelation.” Louis said, “He claims you owe him a debt … some two hundred thousand francs.” 

Chevalier swallowed against the dryness taking over his throat. His gaze flicked to LaFayette’s smirking expression. 

“Do not look at him.” Louis ordered, “Look at your king when he addresses you.” 

Chevalier ducked his head. “Forgive me, Majesty, I-”

“I would not like to hear any excuses from you.” Louis interrupted with a wave of his hand. “This matter is trivial to me now that a deal with India hangs in the balance; I will have you disposed of, Lorraine, do not doubt it.” 

“It is true.” Chevalier whispered, “The money is owed Monsieur LaFayette.” 

“The debt should be paid forthright.” Louis said, “The Vicomte tells me he has been waiting a long time for the issue to be settled.” 

“Nigh on two years, Your Majesty.” LaFayette interjected. 

“I would ask for your mercy, Majesty.” Chevalier said, “I do not have such a sum immediately ready.” 

Louis’ eyes narrowed. He walked slowly across the room to gaze into Chevalier’s face, his eyes dark, cold blue like a winter night sky. 

“Do you know what becomes of debtors?” He asked, quietly. “I do not tolerate them at my court, therefore, if you cannot settle your account with the Vicomte, I will have no choice but to confine you to the debtor’s prison until you are able to pay what is due.” 

Chevalier’s mouth parted, but he could not coerce an argument, or even a plea to his lips. He could not help but to think that in some way, Louis was enjoying this moment the same as LaFayette, and in that case, no amount of bargaining or begging would avail him mercy. 

The doors of the council chambers swung open with a thud, drawing their gazes from one another to Philippe, who stood in the doorway with fire in his eyes. 

“What is the meaning of this?” He demanded. 

“Brother, this meeting is private.” Louis said, his brow furling. “This matter is not your business.” 

“I will make it my business.” 

Philippe strode across the room to Chevalier’s side, and looped his arm around Chevalier’s. Tugging Chevalier behind his shoulder, he took the brunt of Louis’ angered glare. 

“You will thank me that I’ve made it my business when you learn you have let a wolf into the fold.” Philippe said, nodding towards LaFayette. 

“The Vicomte is not only an ally, but an honorable man. Can you say the same for your lover?” Louis said, casting a disdainful glance at Chevalier. 

“Not that it would matter to you. You have already made your judgments.” 

“Yes, I cast them confidently.” Louis said. “The Vicomte has brought proof that the Chevalier is not only a thief, but a debtor.” 

Philippe nodded. “I see. And what is the sum that he owes?” 

“Two hundred thousand francs.” 

“I will pay it.” 

Silence settled over the council chambers as Philippe’s declaration rang through the air. Chevalier clung to Philippe’s arm as disbelief and relief clashed in his chest. 

“It is Lorraine who owes me the debt.” LaFayette said, marching around the council table to join Louis. “It should come from his purse.” 

“Sir, I believe you forget your place.” Philippe said, cutting a cold glare to LaFayette. “You will address me as 'Your Highness,' and you would do well to remember where it is you are standing - in my home, not yours.” 

LaFayette’s mouth pursed into a thin line. “Forgive me, Your Highness.” 

“It is also my home.” Louis said, “And as the king, the decision will fall solely to me.” 

The sound of the chair scraping back brought all of their attention to the council table where the queen had been seated, so quietly they had nearly forgotten her presence. 

“If Philippe says he will pay the Chevalier’s debts, I see no dishonor in it.” She said, her tone chiding. “If the debt is settled, all will be fair. We must turn our attention to more serious matters than two hundred thousands francs. Our deal with India is not yet finalized; that should be our focus.” 

Louis gazed at her for a long moment, fighting a silent battle of the wills, before he let out a sigh. He waved a hand at Philippe and Chevalier. 

“If you wish to pay your wretched lover’s debts, so be it. Take this affair to my minister of finance, and see that it is concluded; I do not wish to hear of it again.” 

“Sire, I must protest-” LaFayette began. 

Louis raised a hand, cutting him off with a sharp glare. “It is done. Let us turn our attention to more pressing issues as the queen has wisely suggested.” 

Philippe grasped Chevalier’s hand against his elbow, and led them out of the council chambers before Louis could be persuaded to change his mind. Chevalier cast a look over his shoulder, catching one last glimpse of LaFayette before the council doors swung shut behind them. His hands curled into fists at his sides, and his cold, dead eyes followed Chevalier with malicious tenacity. The dark thought that this ordeal was far from over crossed his mind. 

When they were alone in the hall, Philippe’s swift stride came to a halt. 

Chevalier slid his palm down Philippe’s arm to grasp his hand, and lifted his knuckles to his mouth. 

“I don’t know how I can ever repay you, my love.” He whispered, planting a soft, lingering kiss on each knuckle. 

Philippe’s fingers twitched in his grasp. Chevalier looked up to see his face slack and emotionless save for the glimmer of pain in his eyes. 

“I will not allow you to be thrown into a debtor’s prison because of that detestable man.” He said, prying his fingers from Chevalier’s grasp. “But, do not think for a second that I have forgiven and forgotten all that you have done.” 

Chevalier lowered his head, a fresh wave of pain colliding in his chest. 

“You used me.” Philippe said, his voice a trembling whisper, so unlike the enraged cry that had echoed through the chapel. “You took me for a fool, and for a moment, I was your fool - willingly.” 

“It was not my intention.” Chevalier said, his voice mottled by the tears swelling up his chest and throat. “You must believe me.” 

“Must I?” Philippe echoed. 

Chevalier let his gaze drop back to the floor, unable to bear the weight of disdain Philippe’s gaze cast upon him. The herringbone pattern of the wood floor blurred into a glimmering mass as the fear and heartbreak rose up to strangle him. 

“Yes.” He whimpered. “He will be the end of me, Philippe. I cannot be here without you; you do not know what he will do to me.” 

Philippe grasped Chevalier’s face in his hands, lifting his tearful gaze from the floor. His expression was cut from stone, conflicted yet valiantly determined. His face, once Chevalier’s most precious sight to gaze upon, now reflected back only the image of his own turmoil, as if he had passed along a sickness. 

“You will have my protection.” Philippe said, stroking a tear from Chevalier’s cheek. 

Chevalier reached up to clutch his wrist, clinging to Philippe’s touch as if it might be the last he would ever feel of it. 

“But not you?” He whispered. 

Philippe sighed, his jaw clenching. “I care deeply for you, but I need a moment to think … to try to understand.” 

His hands retreated from Chevalier’s cheeks, leaving the skin tingling and warm from his touch. He departed down the hall, and Chevalier’s fingers clutched the empty air. 

He stood paralyzed in the hallway for a long moment, watching Philippe’s back retreat until he turned the corner and disappeared entirely. He had not prayed in many years, but he prayed now. He prayed that Philippe take his time to think, but only for a moment, and come to the conclusion that Chevalier was worthy of forgiveness; he prayed that LaFayette soon leave the palace. He prayed that someday, everything could go back to the way it was before. 


	8. The Promise

The following days passed in a gradual haze of sleep, and sex, and wine. Chevalier lingered in his bed until the noon hours, finding no diversion worthy of rousing him from the comforting cocoon of his bedsheets. He found the slightest respite from his thoughts in burying his head beneath the pillows, and delving into restless sleep. Even his dreams were invaded by LaFayette’s face, but when he woke, it was some relief that he could not recall the details, unlike reality in which all that had been said and done remained branded in resolute memory. 

When he could not sleep any longer, he lay in the sheets staring out the open window at the green stretch of the gardens. His thoughts were tormented by LaFayette and Philippe, the two of them like the proverbial angel and demon on either shoulder, whispering conflicting notions in his ears.

This torturous brooding lasted two days before he became weary of the constant and lonely grind of his thoughts. When he disentangled himself from the sheets and wandered down to the salon, it was hardly a difficult task to find someone who wanted his attention. He had been curating his circle with pretty and frivolous people who enjoyed parties as much as he did since the day he had first arrived at the palace. Dozens had passed through his fold before being discarded, but he now had a staunch, tightly-knit group of supporters and rabble-rousers who he could turn to when Philippe was away; or in this case, purposefully absent. 

Charles was a young noble, set to inherit the lands of his father, a duke. He had a pretty face, nigh unto an angel’s, and raven hair that coiled in luscious waves down his shoulders. He could almost resemble Philippe from afar, if only he had been a bit thinner; but Charles enjoyed nothing more than the hedonistic, material things in life, chiefly among them desserts and wine. And men. 

He was eager to be pulled to Chevalier’s side in full view of the salon. 

“You look like a delicious treat.” Chevalier murmured in his ear. “And I’m absolutely famished.” 

Charles’ wide, blue eyes darted to meet his. “And Monsieur?” 

“You don’t answer to him. You answer to me.” 

Charles’ mouth twitched with a mischievous smile. “Right now?” 

“Yes. Come with me.” 

They left the salon together, drawing a few stares and conspiratorial whispers. Chevalier had no doubt the encounter would find its way back to Philippe. There was no shortage of those in the salon who would snitch on an acquaintance - or even a friend - for a chance at Philippe’s favor. 

Charles did well to keep his mouth shut as they walked the halls back to Chevalier’s rooms. The moment they were behind closed doors, he began shedding his clothing, his eyes fixed on Chevalier with a hungry gaze. 

Chevalier divested himself quickly of his overcoat, vest, and shirt, and marched across the room to seize Charles by the face. He pressed a hard, eager kiss the young man’s mouth, revelling in the little moan that erupted from his throat. He reached down to grasp Charles’ growing erection. 

Charles moaned aloud, his grasp on Chevalier’s waist tightening. 

“Oh, yes.” He panted, rocking his hips against Chevalier’s hand. 

Chevalier nudged him back toward the bed, keeping his fist tight around Charles’ cock. Charles sank down to the edge of the bed, sputtering affirmations. 

Sinking to his knees, Chevalier took Charles’ cock in his mouth. He had slipped the vial of oil from his overcoat pocket while undressing, and he uncapped it now to slick his fingers. Charles cried in pleasure as Chevalier’s fingers went into him, breaching the taut, warm flesh with a decisive thrust. 

“Yes, fuck me.” He moaned, his body falling submissively against the sheets. 

Chevalier let Charles’ cock slip out of his mouth, and rose to his feet to unbutton his breeches. 

Charles lifted his legs to his chest, and pinned Chevalier with a needy gaze. His fingers pressed against the damp corner of his mouth, muffling the little whimpers spilling freely from his throat. 

Chevalier grasped his thighs, and dragged him to the edge of the bed where his backside pressed flush to Chevalier’s rigid cock. 

Charles gazed up at him, his breath caught in anticipation. His black hair was a disheveled halo around his flushed cheeks and pale shoulders, and his eyes held a need so deep it would have impressed another man. For Chevalier, this image only reminded him of the night he’d spent with Philippe only a few days ago, just before he had ruined it all by confessing the past. 

He closed his eyes, and thrust into Charles, ignoring the pain that perforated the pleasure swelling up in his chest. Focusing solely on his own pleasure, he rutted into Charles with a passionless abandon. Charles’ pleased cries and panted assurances fell on deaf ears, a bit of practiced theater being played to an oblivious audience. 

When he finally came, Chevalier sank to the sheets, and batted away Charles’ offered embrace. They lay in silence until Chevalier felt his strength return. He rolled over, and held the vial of oil out to Charles. 

“Now, you fuck me.” He said. 

 

~

 

Chevalier woke the next day to the hum of crickets outside his window, and the dying, afternoon sun slanting golden beams across his bed. Though he had slept through most of the day and into the evening after yesterday’s tryst, he longed to return to the gentle embrace of slumber. His head ached, and his body felt limp and used. 

After the second round, Chevalier had ordered the servant to bring in wine and pastries. They’d eaten and drunk until they couldn’t taste the sweetness any longer, and they were just drunk enough to muddle through another sloppy, short-lived fuck. He remembered little of that part. 

Charles was gone now, and the bed stretched on like an empty plateau that reached to the ends of the world. The sheets were damp with his sweat, and smelled sharply of sweat and sex. 

He rolled over, and stared up at the ceiling with a deep sigh. Sex had always made him feel better, but this particular morning after left him with a hollowness in his chest rather than a weightless satisfaction. 

First, he thought it was Charles who was to blame; but the young man had been nothing more than eager to please and full of stamina. He’d given it his all, which was admirable, considering his partner had never expected him to live up to the shadow of the prince. 

_ No, I have only myself to blame.  _ He thought.  _ And Philippe. It is the two of us, and no one else.  _

He hadn’t given much thought as to what might happen should he lose favor with Philippe, and be ousted from the circle. He’d been hellbent on fixing it all, damming the leaks as they sprung, covering the wounds of the past with lies and manipulations - all for Philippe’s benefit, of course. He’d stupidly believed that he could rise above the mistakes he’d made, and Philippe would see it all as a valiant struggle. Perhaps he’d known it was a lie the moment he’d conceived of it, but it hadn’t struck as real until Philippe raised his voice out of betrayal in the chapel. 

_ You must consider a life without him. You must form a plan before you’re discarded from the palace entirely.  _

The thought may have spurred him to action had he not been so drunk and utterly disappointed in the night past. He wavered on the knife’s edge between caring too much, and caring not enough. 

At last, unable to take the din of his thoughts, he rose from the bed, and dressed. He left his rooms, and walked down to the salon. He was hungry, yet the thoughts of eating a proper meal distressed the nausea in his stomach. 

He accepted a plate of macarons and a glass of wine from the waiter by the door, and took his scarce dinner to a table near the window. He sank down in the chair, and popped one of the sweet treats into his mouth. The delicious flavor was lost to him, but he chewed and swallowed it down nonetheless. He found a great deal more pleasure in the sip of wine he took wash it down. 

“Lorraine.” 

He glanced up to see Charles approaching with his gaggle of pretty boys close on his heels. Charles clutched a half-empty glass of wine in his hand, not the first of the night judging by the color on his cheeks. 

“Did you sleep well, my sweet?” Charles asked, petting at Chevalier’s hair. “You looked so peaceful, I slipped out without waking you.” 

“Go away.” Chevalier said, waving a dismissive hand. 

“What’s the matter, darling?” Charles asked, his expression melting to one of concern. “I thought you enjoyed yourself last night.” 

Chevalier sat upright in his chair, and slapped Charles’ pestering hands from his hair. 

“Leave me be! I do not wish to be disturbed.” He said, pinning Charles with a glare. 

Charles took a step back, the inebriated glaze in his eyes parting for a moment. 

“Forgive me.” He said, ducking his head. “Perhaps we will meet again, on another night when you are not so melancholic.” 

“Perhaps. The chances will increase the sooner you get out of my presence.” 

Charles huffed, and turned back to his entourage. He muttered something to them, but Chevalier cared not for his wounded pride. 

He turned back to the window, scowling at the pale pink of the sky blossoming in sunset. The beauty of it was inescapable, yet in this moment, it seemed to taunt him. Sunsets only mattered when one has their lover to share it with. 

“Pouting are we?” 

Chevalier startled upright once more when a new voice interrupted the dismal chain of his thoughts. 

LaFayette pulled out the chair on the other side of the table, and sat with down with a deep sigh. His gaze wandered critically over Chevalier’s unkempt appearance. 

“I have never seen you turn away a pretty boy.” LaFayette continued, waving a finger across the room at Charles. “And he is quite pretty.” 

“What do you want?” Chevalier asked, falling back against his chair. “To torment me? You’ll be pleased to know you’re doing a fine job of that already.” 

LaFayette chuckled, and shook his head. “You disrespected me, Lorraine. You attacked my manhood. I will see you suffer more than a poor night’s sleep before I am pleased.” 

“If that is how the wheels of justice do turn, then I believe I am entitled to witness a great deal of suffering from you as well.” Chevalier said. 

“One must first have respect to be disrespected.” 

Chevalier swallowed back the last of his wine, and set the glass down firmly on the table. Planting his elbows on the table, he leaned forward to fix a dour gaze on LaFayette. 

“I have told Philippe everything.” He said, keeping his voice low. “Our little secret is no longer a secret. Soon, everyone here will know you never were a man of respect and virtue.” 

LaFayette’s jaw twitched, but he forced a chuckle. “You believe it is Philippe who will drive me out of this place? He is no soldier, no king - he’s barely worthy of the title he was born to.” 

“He is worthy of more respect than you will ever be. He is more a man than you will ever be.” Chevalier said, jabbing a finger at him. 

LaFayette fist thudded against the tabletop as his face darkened with anger. “You are a cunt, Lorraine, and you will get what is coming to all cunts like you - fucked into submission, and thrown aside once you are loose, and pleasureless whore.” 

“Philippe has settled my debts. You can no longer coerce me into doing all that you ask.” 

“You forget.” LaFayette said, his mouth stretching back in a rigid smile. “I do not need leverage to put you in my bed - in your place. I need only my hand.” He thrust his palm out before Chevalier’s face, and firmly closed his fist. “And with it, I will crush you.” 

Before Chevalier could muster an answer, LaFayette rose from his chair, and cut his gaze across the room. 

“Here comes your prince now.” He said, waving his hand. 

Chevalier pivoted in his chair, and found Philippe’s face amongst the crowd of nobles. A sense of relief filled his chest, followed by a pang of sadness. 

He was here, driving away the pestilence, but he did not appear joyful to see Chevalier staring at him. His mouth was pursed into a thin line, his brow creased by a little frown of displeasure as his gaze followed LaFayette out of the room and found its way back to Chevalier. 

Chevalier averted his gaze to the window, taking the few moments that were given him to rearrange his expression from one of desperation to that of indifference. 

“What did he want?” Philippe asked, approaching the table. 

“To vex me.” Chevalier said, turning his gaze back to Philippe. “What else could he possibly want?” 

Philippe scowled as he took the seat LaFayette had vacated. “I wonder whether this negotiation shan’t go on forever.” 

“Yes, I do hope he is gone from our lives soon, and perhaps some balance may be restored.” Chevalier said. 

He snapped his fingers at the servant passing by with a pitcher of wine. The young man diverted from his path to fill Chevalier’s cup. 

“A drink for you as well, Your Highness?” He asked, bowing his head to Philippe. 

Philippe nodded. 

The servant produced a glass, and filled it. As he departed, Chevalier sank back against the chair, and fixed his gaze on Philippe. 

“Have you taken your time to think?” He asked. 

“I still am.” 

Chevalier released a sigh, and snatched his glass of wine from the table. “How many times must I apologize?” 

“You haven’t.” Philippe said, narrowing his eyes. 

“Very well.” Chevalier said, reaching across the table to snag Philippe’s fingers in his own. “I pray that you forgive me so that I may return into your good favor, and back into your bed.” He dragged Philippe’s resisting fingers to his mouth, and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “I miss you terribly, mignonnet.” 

“That wasn’t an apology.” Philippe said. “And you must not miss me so terribly. I heard you entertained a young man last night by the name of Charles.” 

Chevalier let out a sigh, and released Philippe’s fingers. “You know me, and the scope of my needs; in any case, he cannot compare to you, mignonnet. No one can.” 

Philippe made a dubious sound in the back of his throat. 

“What must I do? Get on my knees and lick your boots?”  Chevalier asked, waving a hand at the floor. “Whatever it is you require, my dear, I will do it.” 

Philippe shook his head. “No.” 

“Then what?” Chevalier asked, a bit of his hopeful bravado flagging. 

“I want to know that your words were true - that what we had together wasn’t a lie founded on your need to protect yourself.”  Philippe sighed, his gaze dropping his lap. “You must understand - before you and after you, there will always be people who arrive at this palace in search of fulfillment,  to gain status, to expand their purse … at my expense. Make me believe that you are not one of them.” 

Chevalier swallowed hard, the wine growing bitter at the back of his tongue. 

“How?” He asked. “How can I prove myself to you?” 

Philippe’s misty gaze rose to meet his. “I don’t know that you can.” 

Chevalier’s eyes clung to Philippe’s as he rose from the table. The pain that he managed to dull with drink and dreams returned, expounding and lacerating through his chest. He had just begun to imagine a life without Philippe, but this brief exchange shattered all disposition that he could navigate the world alone after they had touched one another so deeply. 

“Philippe, wait.”

He leapt up from his chair to seize Philippe’s wrist before he could depart. Philippe’s gaze held onto his, searching with hope for some sign in Chevalier’s eyes that might unseat his fears and mistrust. 

“I will find a way.” Chevalier whispered. 

Philippe’s gaze darted away. He held onto Chevalier’s fingers for a fleeting moment before twisting his hand free, and departing into the crowd. 

Chevalier sank to his chair with a defeated sigh. 

Philippe must know as well as he that his promise rang empty. He did not yet know how he could convince Philippe of his fidelity, only that he was desperate to reconcile before it was too late - before LaFayette was the death of him. 

 

~

 

Days bled into one another as Chevalier spurned the routine of waking hours and those of sleeping. His sex and wine fueled rampage continued with a new face each night, culminating on the fourth day with the suggestion from one of the boys that they all besiege Chevalier’s bed at once. He wasn’t in the mood to argue; in fact, an orgy seemed the perfect distraction. 

They went until the dark hours of the night, each of them taking turns fucking him and being fucked by him. He lost track of their faces, their bodies, the number of orgasms. When they finally collapsed to the sheets in a mass of weak limbs and satiated bodies, the moon was high overhead and the rest of the palace was utterly silent. 

Exhausted, Chevalier fell asleep nearly instantly, waking only because the thud of his bedroom door swinging open jolted him from dreams. 

“Get out at once! All of you!” 

He startled awake, and scrambled upright, blinking against the candlelight waving above the bed. His heavy eyes focused to find Philippe standing over the bed in his nightclothes, a scowl on his face. 

The mass of naked bodies began to move, each of them waking and scurrying to follow the prince’s command. 

Philippe stood aside as they all located their discarded clothing, and scampered out of the room in quick succession. When the last boy was out of the room, and the door shut behind him, Philippe turned his gaze to Chevalier. The sparse candlelight illuminated the weary resignation and yearning in his eyes. 

“What on earth are you doing?” Chevalier asked, clutching the sheets around his bare waist. 

Philippe set the candle down on the bedside table, and untied the front of his robe. 

“This little charade has been going on for days.” He said, “I gave you the chance to stop, but you’re a bit too dull for that, aren’t you?” 

“You turned me away.” Chevalier whispered.

“I wanted you to come to me.” Philippe said. He shrugged the loose silk of his robe from his shoulders, causing the garment to pool at his elbows. “I wanted your devotion, your sincere remorse. It seems you are incapable of doing so …. So here I am.” 

Their gazes clung to one another in a silent conflict of need, of accusations and concessions, and damaged emotions. 

“This is what you wanted isn’t it?” Philippe said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. 

Chevalier swallowed thickly as he advanced toward the bed. 

“Wh-what are you doing?” Chevalier whispered. 

“I cannot stand idly by any longer.” Philippe said, dropping his robe to the ground. “I cannot watch them with you, thinking they have some part of you.” 

Chevalier blinked as Philippe grasped his nightgown, and pulled it off over his head. His hair settled in black waves against his shoulders. The faded orange of the candlelight cast long shadows across his pale skin, sharpening the shudder of anticipation lifting his chest. 

Chevalier’s gaze wandered down his body, taking in the press of his ribs against his pale skin, the tremble low in his belly, the twitch of his cock slowly growing with suppressed need. 

“They don’t have any part of me, mignonnet.” He said, tossing aside the sheets to crawl to the edge of the bed. “Only you do.” 

Philippe caught his face in his hands, and pressed a hard kiss to Chevalier’s lips. Their mouths locked together, stroking desperately against one another with a powerful need that broke free past the anger, past the hurt. Philippe’s tongue curled hot and velvet into Chevalier’s mouth, thrilling his body with more pleasure than all the myriad kisses and caresses that had come before. 

When Philippe drew back, Chevalier panted eagerly. “How I missed you.” 

Philippe clutched his cheeks, his thumb dragging across Chevalier’s lower lip, slick with  saliva. Scrutinizing Chevalier’s attentive expression, he clenched his jaw and drew in a slow breath. 

“I’m going to fuck you.” He whispered, reaching down to grasp Chevalier’s balls. “So hard you will not be able to walk in a straight line tomorrow.” 

Chevalier whimpered as Philippe’s fist squeezed around his balls. The little burst of pain was minimal in comparison to the pleasure that flooded his veins like a drug at Philippe’s raspy promise. 

He leaned in to brush his mouth against Philippe’s as he whispered, “As you wish, Highness.” 

Philippe kissed him again, a short, vicious press of his mouth that ended when he pushed Chevalier back against the sheets. 

Chevalier drew his legs up against his chest, offering his submission. His teeth drew across his lower lip as Philippe’s gaze wandered critically over him, holding steady even when he moved to take the bottle of oil from the nightstand. 

Philippe turned the vial over between his fingers. He extended the index of his other hand to wave it in a circle at Chevalier. 

“Turn over.” He said. “On your knees.” 

Chevalier let out the breath he’d been holding with a subdued gasp. His heart thudded in his chest as he rolled over, situating his knees beneath him. Planting his hands in the covers, he peeked over his shoulder to see Philippe crawl onto the bed behind him. 

“Do not look at me.” Philippe ordered. “Put your face down, in the sheets.” 

Chevalier swallowed hard, feeling his face growing hot. So this was not meant to be tender reunion sex, or anything resembling the scenarios he’d imagined in his long hours of wallowing. Philippe meant to own him, and to remind him of that ownership. 

His body clenched when Philippe’s fingertips, slick with oil, brushed against his hole. The flesh quivered, already tender from the night’s earlier activities. He suppressed a gasp, and curled his fists around the sheets. 

“You’re trembling.” Philippe murmured, dragging his fingertips in a slow, agonzing circle. “Are you hard, yet?” 

“Yes.” Chevalier whispered, opening his eyes to see his cock engorged and twitching below his upraised hips. Philippe could see very well that he was hard, but he seemed intent on completing the humiliation before dealing out any type of forgiveness. 

His fingers breached Chevalier without warning, going deep on the first thrust. 

Chevalier cried out, his hips arching away from the brusque penetration. Philippe’s hand was against his hip in a moment, righting his position back to one of raised and open submission. He held Chevalier in place as he pumped in his fingers in and out, opening the already sensitized flesh to his touch. Fingertips arching, he bore down on the tender spot bundled deep inside. 

“Oh, Jesus Christ!” Chevalier moaned, gripping the sheets and pounding his fist into the mattress. 

Philippe’s palm left his hip, and dipped between his trembling thighs to find his cock hard and throbbing. His stroked gently for a few moments, before winding his fist around the root.  Chevalier had little choice but to remain still as Philippe’s fingers probed into him, finding that sweet spot that pushed him towards orgasm over and over again. 

“Philippe.” Chevalier cried, twisting with what little slack he had against Philippe’s grasp. “Please ... you’re going to end me before we’ve even begun.” 

Philippe’s fingers eased and departed, leaving Chevalier’s flesh limp and smarting. His other hand slid down Chevalier’s cock to feel the little drops of pre-cum gathering at the tip. 

Chevalier bit at his lower lip to suppress yet another whimper. His belly was taut with arousal, begging for just the right touch to send him into climax, and Philippe’s toying fingers only tormented him with the aching closeness of it. 

After a moment, Philippe released him, and his hard cock swung back up towards his belly. Chevalier gasped in a breath as the encroaching tingles faded away, leaving him kneeling untouched in raw, aching need. 

He chanced a look over his shoulder, desperate to see that Philippe’s vow was soon to come to fruition. Philippe’s head was bowed, focused on his palm stroking oil over his cock, allowing Chevalier more than a moment to look; and despite what Philippe was doing, how he was slowly torturing him, he couldn’t have been more pleased at the sight of him. 

Chevalier turned his face back to the sheets when Philippe’s head lifted. His palms grasped Chevalier’s hips, tilting him back against the blunt, slick press of his cockhead. 

“Oh, yes.” Chevalier whispered, arching back into the wonderful pressure. “Fuck me.” 

Philippe’s hips rocked forward, working his cock inside with a few shallow strokes. When Chevalier’s body yielded to him, he thrust all the way inside with a muted smack of flesh and a low groan. 

Philippe warmed him with a few shallow thrusts before establishing a deep, thorough rhythm that jolted Chevalier’s hips forward with every blow. His palm pressed against the base of Chevalier’s spine, and slid downward, following the curve of his back until he reached his neck. His fingers tightened, forcing Chevalier’s cheek into the sheets. 

“How does that feel?” Philippe said, his voice a raspy, yet demanding whisper. “After all the rest, how does it feel?” 

“Good.” Chevalier moaned as Philippe’s thrusts shook him. “So much better.” 

The air filled with the smack of forcefully meeting flesh, and their strangled moans. Chevalier clung to the sheets as Philippe’s powerful thrusts struck him over and over, leaving him gaping, on the verge of splitting in two. He dared not cry for mercy even as Philippe’s cock hit against the aching flesh that had already been repeatedly ravaged this night. The sprigs of pain only seemed to increase the zest and vigor of his desire, driving the hot blood through him faster now that his heart was surging with both tenderness and need. The thought that Philippe was back in the same bed with him, taking him with such passion, inspired anew his cock previously drained of its fluid by several other pairs of hands. 

“Show me.” Philippe panted, “Show me how good.” 

His fingers shifted from the back of Chevalier’s neck into his hair, and when he had a thick section in his grasp, he lifted his face from the sheets. Chevalier planted a hand on the mattress to balance himself as Philippe’s thrusts continued to rock him. He reached down with the other hand to touch himself, finding his cock engorged and leaping at the slightest caress. 

“Oh God.” He moaned, carefully stroking the pulsing flesh. His body clamped with fully gestated need, begging him for a few well-paced strokes to find completion. 

Philippe reined him back by his hair so that he could see over Chevalier’s shoulder to where his fist grasped his red, swollen cock. He grasped Chevalier’s hip, guiding him back into the thrusts. 

“Go on.” He whispered breathlessly into Chevalier’s ear. 

Chevalier tightened his grasp, and began to stroke in long swift touches that stretched from root to tip. The pleasure was quick to rear its head, surging through him from belly to fingertips, drawing everything achingly tight. 

“Oh, fuck.” Philippe moaned against his throat. “Yes, that’s perfect.” 

Chevalier couldn’t hear the sound of his own cries as the pleasure overcame him, leaping into his veins with sudden, blistering force. His hips seized when the climax struck, paralyzing him for a few, blinding moments before sending him writhing to and fro against the steady drum of Philippe’s cock inside him. His fist rubbed ardently at his cock, sending fountains of release spurting down his knuckles and across the bed sheets. As the last of it dribbled from his softening tip, Philippe shoved him back down in the damp mess. 

Chevalier’s mouth stretched open in a breathless cry as Philippe’s cock hammered into him, driving mercilessly against the sensitized flesh. He grabbed onto the sheets, and held on as the frantic thrusts culminated towards their peak. As Philippe chased his pleasure, they came harder and harder, leaving Chevalier gasping and dizzy, a plea hanging stubbornly at the back of his tongue. He clamped his lips shut, silencing that momentary urge to beg, and held onto the sheets for the few, fevered moments it took for Philippe to climax. 

With a guttural cry, Philippe’s hips lapsed against Chevalier’s backside, dispensing the first hot, wet surges of release into him. The spasms came next, his cock slipping in and out of Chevalier as he came, and spilling release inside him, across his ass cheeks, down his thighs. 

They sank to the sheets in a trembling tangle of limbs, flushed skin, and sticky release. 

Philippe’s head settled against Chevalier’s shoulder as he rested, calming his exhilarated breathing. 

Chevalier lay still, daring not to move or speak until Philippe did - until he revealed the true nature of his emotions now that this desperate need to assert his dominance had passed. 

After a few long minutes, Philippe lifted his head, and laid a soft kiss on Chevalier’s shoulder. 

“I missed you a great deal.” He murmured. 

“And I you.” Chevalier said, his voice a raw whisper. Silence lapsed between them, and he carefully turned his head to look over his shoulder. “May I look at you now?” 

Philippe released a quiet sigh. “You may.” 

Chevalier rolled over, wincing at the pang of tenderness that movement incited. 

“That was very cruel of you.” He said, catching Philippe’s hand in his own, and drawing it into a kiss. “There’s nothing I enjoy more in the world than seeing your face when you come.” 

Philippe ducked his head, a thin smile crossing his lips. His fingers were lax as Chevalier’s mouth moved across his knuckles, and downward into the warm cradle of his palm. 

“If you meant to punish me, consider it done.” Chevalier said, shifting his gaze from the soft, pink flesh of Philippe’s palm to his contemplative expression. “You don’t know how I’ve suffered these past few days.” 

“You did ask how you should do penance.” Philippe said, pushing his palm into the wet glide of Chevalier’s mouth. 

Chevalier muttered a laugh into his skin. “Well, if this is my penance, then perhaps I should go to confession more often.” 

Philippe withdrew his palm to slap Chevalier’s flank with it. “Do not bring religion into this bedroom, I beg of you.” 

Chevalier let his head fall back against the pillows in unbridled laughter, the sensation bubbling up in his stomach stronger and more enjoyable than the buzz of any wine. 

Philippe’s chuckle joined his own, and he buried his face into Chevalier’s neck, kissing ardently. 

“I should hate you for this.” He whispered. 

“For what?” Chevalier asked. 

“For making me feel this way.” Philippe replied, lifting his head. “For making me want you so desperately, even when you have offended me.” 

“Mm, it is the power I wield.” Chevalier murmured, drawing his fingertip down Philippe’s cheek, and tapping him on the nose. “No one is immune to it, not even you, mignonnet.” 

Philippe ducked his head, smiling quietly. With a deep sigh, he dragged himself from repose, and sat upright. Balancing his elbows on his knees, he gazed somberly at a distant spot on the wall. 

“Really, though.” He said, “What shall we do?” 

Chevalier sat up behind him, and stroked his hair back from his shoulder. Pressing his mouth to Philippe’s shoulder, he whispered, “We do this until it is all over … until your brother has gotten what he wants and LaFayette is gone-”

“Do not say his name.” Philippe said, his fingers curling into fists. “I cannot bear it.” 

Chevalier cleared his throat, and focused on the pale curve of Philippe’s shoulder. “Until …  _ he  _ is gone, and we have our life back.” 

Philippe turned suddenly, jolting Chevalier’s mouth from his shoulder. His eyes seized Chevalier’s, burning with an intensity that made Chevalier shudder. 

“I do not want him gone of his own free will.” Philippe said, reaching up to gently touch the fading bruises beneath Chevalier’s eye. “I want to see him punished for what he’s done to you. I want him to know that he cannot come here and pretend to rule me as he did you. I will not be subject to his wishes, his whims, or his violence.” 

“Philippe, you cannot challenge him.” Chevalier said, clutching Philippe’s wrist. “Louis will not have it.” 

Philippe let out a frustrated sigh. “I know.” 

“I will not have it.” Chevalier said, taking Philippe’s hand between both of his own. 

Philippe’s gaze darted back to his with a frown. 

“I will not risk your injury at his hand.” Chevalier whispered. “I want him to simply be gone from our lives so that we can return to the way things were.” 

“The way things were?” Philippe echoed. “How can we go back to that?” 

“What do you mean? Of course we can.” 

Philippe scoffed. “So, you expect me to simply expunge the memory of your battered face from my mind? You expect me to forget what he’s done to you, to stop myself from imagining all the things that you have not told me?” 

“Philippe, it matters not.” Chevalier said, squeezing Philippe’s hand tighter. “This is my life now …  _ you  _ are my life.” 

“It matters not.” Philippe repeated the sentiment,  his voice dull with anger. “Perhaps you delude yourself into believing that, but I cannot.” 

Chevalier gazed longingly at him for a moment before clasping his cheek to pull him closer. 

“Let us speak no more of this tonight.” He whispered, pressing a kiss to the corner of Philippe’s mouth. “We will both think more rationally when we’ve had our sleep.” 

Philippe resisted for only a moment before allowing himself to be pulled down to the sheets in Chevalier’s embrace. He opened his mouth to speak, but Chevalier pressed his fingers over his lips. 

“Go to sleep.” He whispered, nuzzling against Philippe’s neck. 

They laid in silence for what could have been an hour or more, and Chevalier began to wonder which of them would give in first. In the end, he lost track of Philippe’s breathing and the signs that he might yet be awake as his own eyelids grew heavy with exhaustion. Their embrace melded away into dreams where a peace he had not known for some time now settled over him. 


	9. The Challenge

Morning came all too soon, the sunlight crawling in yellow daggers across the sheets and tangled limbs to coax them from the land of dreams. 

Chevalier blinked against the light, his aching head protesting the bright and early hour. The slightest shift of his body roused an ache deep inside him that wouldn’t soon subside. His mouth was dry as cotton, and tasted densely of wine. He wanted nothing more than to fall back to sleep, but his half-shut eyes caught on Philippe’s slumbering face. The beautiful sight was enough to anchor him fully to reality. 

He reached out to touch Philippe’s hair, carefully removing the tangled strands from his cheek so that he could gaze on his lover’s face unobstructed. With Philippe’s face came all the memories of the night before. The drinking, the despair, the parade of bodies suddenly interrupted by Philippe’s possessive jealousy, and the pleasure that had followed. The pulsing in his head and the ache in body seemed worth it. 

Chevalier stroked Philippe’s hair away from his neck, and bent to press a kiss against the soft skin below his ear. Philippe shivered involuntarily, and made a little sound of contentment still weighted by sleep. Caressing Philippe’s arm with the back of his knuckles, Chevalier gradually made his way along Philippe’s jawline until he reached his chin, and moved up to kiss the corner of his mouth. 

Eyelids fluttering open, Philippe uttered a responsive moan. His mouth parted to accept Chevalier’s slow kiss, but as Chevalier reached down to pet his stomach, Philippe’s fingers closed around his wrist. His blue eyes sprung open, alert despite the early hour. 

“What’s the matter?” Chevalier asked. 

Philippe’s fingers tightened around his wrist. “You’re trying to fuck me.” 

“Yes. You look absolutely divine; I question the sanity of anyone who wouldn’t.” 

Philippe’s expression remained somber despite Chevalier’s flattery. He pushed Chevalier’s reaching fingers away from his cock, and sat up. 

“I’m not in the mood.” He said. 

“Please. You’re always in the mood.” 

Philippe braced his elbows against his knees, and fixed his gaze on the view of the gardens through the window. 

Chevalier fell back against the sheets with a dramatic sigh. “You are torturing me still? Have I not suffered enough?” 

“You’ve spent the last week fucking anything with two legs and prick. I hardly call that suffering.” 

“I was thinking only of you, mignonnet.”

Philippe hesitated for a moment before glancing over his shoulder at Chevalier with a melancholy glimmer in his eyes.  

““You know as well as I do that I can’t simply go on as if nothing has happened.” He said.

“Why not?” Chevalier murmured, despite sharing Philippe’s sentiment. He reached over to take Philippe’s hand, and focused on the graceful length of his fingers.

“Because …  _ he  _ is still here.” 

Chevalier peeked up at Philippe’s rigid profile. “What do you intend to do about it?” 

“I don’t yet know.” 

“You do. You never overthink your decisions; you just do them, consequences be damned.” 

Philippe retrieved his hand, and threw the sheets back. He marched across the room to the piss pot, and relieved himself with a sigh. 

“Where are the servants?” He pondered aloud. “I’m in need of a bath.” 

Chevalier suppressed the urge to roll his eyes even though Philippe’s back was turned. 

“I’ll go find them.” He said. 

He climbed out of bed, and located his nightgown among the messy heaps of clothing he’d discarded the night before. He strode out of the room in search of one of the domestics. With the hour quickly approaching noon, they had no doubt already passed through his part of the palace to see to their daily cleaning duties, and he would have to call them back. Had they spent the night in Philippe’s quarters, they would already be on hand. 

Chevalier muttered his annoyance as his survey of his rooms came up empty. Stepping out into the hallway, he looked up and down the corridor. He didn’t see any of the servants, but one of the guards was pacing the hall ahead. 

He flagged the man down with a snap of his fingers. 

“You there!  Go and fetch Monsieur's domestics. He’s in need of a bath to be drawn.” 

The guard nodded. 

“Go, hurry.” Chevalier said, waving his fingers. 

The guard took off down the hallway, leaving Chevalier in the cavernous silence of the corridor. As he turned to walk back to his rooms, he heard the guard’s footfalls recede before returning again.  He spun to command the man to his duties, but as the owner of the striding footfalls turned around the corner, he quickly saw it was no guard who approached. 

LaFayette didn’t break his stride as he advanced down the corridor. He spread his hands, offering an unusual smile. “Lorraine.” 

Chevalier backed up to the door of his rooms. He arranged a rigid smile on his face, willing away the instant fear that sprang up in his chest at the sight of the Vicomte. 

“Still abed at this hour?” LaFayette asked, perusing Chevaliers nightgown.

“One is not pressed to keep regular hours when in the company of royalty.” Chevalier replied, nodding to the closed door of the bedroom. 

LaFayette’s confidence waned as his eyes sparked with realization. “I see.” 

“Did you expect to find me alone?” Chevalier asked. 

“You’re never alone for long, darling.” LaFayette said, his smile returning. He reached up to touch Chevalier’s cheek. “Not with a face like yours.” 

Chevalier turned his chin from LaFayette’s caress, and pinned him with a defiant glare. “You see what you’ve done to my face.” He whispered. “Don’t you tire of this?” 

“Lorraine.” LaFayette murmured, shifting closer to him. “You know very well that I will not be satisfied.” 

“I know very well that you are playing with fire.” Chevalier hissed, “Philippe has welcomed me back to his side completely. He will not allow you to touch me again.” 

“Perhaps.” LaFayette said, the corner of his mouth turning up in a thin smile. “But you will not be rid of me.” 

“Surely this deal with India will soon be done.” 

“Yes, it will; but as I said, the king has offered me permanent residence here if I wish it.” 

“You do intend to stay?”  Chevalier attempted to sound indifferent, but the question erupted quickly, eager to be proven wrong. 

“Yes, I will accept his offer.” LaFayette said, closing the space between them with his hands clasped behind his back. “ I am a man of innovative spirit, Lorraine; I do not always need to be touching you to derive my amusement. It will give me great pleasure to remain here and watch you suffer daily from my presence alone.” 

He leaned forward to brace his hands against the door on either side of Chevalier’s head, bringing their gazes level. His breath spilled across Chevalier’s cheeks, smelling already of wine despite the youthful hour of the day. 

Chevalier shrank against the door, his palm clasping sweaty around the knob. He could open the door now and flee, but such an action would put LaFayette and Philippe together in the same room; he was not yet ready to grapple with those circumstances. 

LaFayette stroked his cheek, chuckling when Chevalier flinched away from the touch. He drew in a deep breath, his dark eyes wandering over Chevalier’s rigid expression of fear. 

“As much as your pain amuses me, it is your weakness - your absolute worthlessness as a man - that brings me the greatest delight.” LaFayette said, his fingers snagging around a strand of Chevalier’s hair. His inspected the golden gleam of the curl for a moment before shaking his head thoughtfully. “Perhaps you are in his favor now, but all favorites come and go. And once he tires of you, you will be nothing more to him than you were to me not so long ago - a discarded lover, and a debtor, your body worth nothing more to him than the two hundred thousand francs he paid for it.” 

LaFayette’s gaze held Chevalier’s captive as the statement hung in the air between them. He waited for Chevalier to offer a rebuttal, to perhaps plead and beg; but the time for tears was over. Though the latter end of his statement struck hard and painful at Chevalier's heart, he could not waver and allow the claim of his worthlessness to be proven correct. 

Chevalier straightened against the door, and lifted his chin defiantly. 

LaFayette’s eyes narrowed. A flicker of doubt entered the coldness in his gaze, but he was quick to smother it with a critical glance down Chevalier’s nightgown and a raspy chuckle. 

“If it’s worth that at all.” He muttered. 

In the silence of the hall, Chevalier heard the door knob turn behind him. He saw LaFayette’s expression change as the door creaked open, and palm pressed warm against Chevalier’s hip. 

“Vicomte.” Philippe said, “What are you doing about these halls at this hour?” 

“Just taking a leisurely stroll, your Highness.” 

“Through the apartments?” Philippe said, “You should be careful; someone might take your for a peeper … or a prowler.” 

LaFayette coughed a laugh. “Of course not, your Highness.”

Chevalier stood utterly still, not daring to look back at Philippe’s expression for fear that his face might betray what had just been said before the door opened. 

Philippe’s fingers curled around the fabric of his nightgown, and dipped into skin. Chevalier allowed himself to be tugged back towards the safety of his rooms. 

“Perhaps you should take your leisurely stroll among the gardens.” Philippe said. “It looks to be a lovely day outside.” 

Before LaFayette could muster a reply, Philippe nudged Chevalier behind him and pushed the door shut. 

Chevalier wrung his hands as Philippe turned slowly to look at him. 

“Did he speak to you?” 

Chevalier opened his mouth, but the reply lodged at the back of his throat. 

“What did he say?” Philippe demanded. “Did he threaten you?” 

“No, not exactly.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“Louis has offered him permanent residence here.” Chevalier whispered. “He’s accepted.” 

The anger in Philippe’s eyes stalled, and shifted to realization, and finally panic. 

“What?” He whispered. 

“He’s staying.” Chevalier said, his voice resounding hollow and limp inside his head. 

“No, that can’t be. He can’t … Louis cannot do this; I must speak to him immediately.”  Philippe said, the decision forming in the wild glint of his eyes before the resolution had even passed his lips. He spun, and marched back toward the door. 

“And you think he will listen to you?” Chevalier called after him. “This is your brother we’re talking about.” 

Philippe paused with his hand on the doorknob. His shoulder rose with a stiff inhale of frustration. 

“You might have more success asking the sky not to be blue.” Chevalier said. “He will not give up the imminent charter with India.” 

“And I will have that man gone before the ink has dried on the contract.” Philippe said, casting a stony gaze over his shoulder. “Therefore, we are at an impasse, and I must find a way around him.” 

He yanked the door open, and strode out into the hall, his robe billowing at his ankles.

Rushing to the door, Chevalier gazed down the hall at Philippe’s retreating figure. He knew not what Philippe meant by going around Louis, or what he intended to do;  he only knew to stay out of the way once Philippe had made up his mind. 

 

~

 

The day truly had unraveled into one of splendour, of warmth and sunlight, leaving behind the rain and fog of the days past. The trees in the gardens were in full blossom, scattering to the wind their sweet, enchanting scent. 

Philippe ignored the beauty that surrounded him as he took the path leading down to his mother’s favorite spot. Nestled among the cherry trees, a little pavilion offered shade and relaxation with a view of the fountain and surrounding gardens. Her ladies in waiting stood ready to attend to her every need, and a servant fanned her to the left. 

Philippe envied his mother’s position as he approached. She lounged on a cushion with a book in her lap, hardly a care in the world. Her days of turmoil were past, her husband dead, her enemies vanquished. Though her health declined, she did not suffer the duress of ruling her sons had inherited. 

He paused at the edge of the pavilion to offer a respectful bow. 

“Mother.” 

“Philippe.” Anne said, a smile crossing her cheeks. She let her book fall shut in her lap, and waved for him to approach. “What troubles you, my son?” 

“Must I be troubled to visit my mother?” 

Anne chuckled. “I can see that you are troubled by your eyes. Come, sit with me.” 

Philippe drew in a deep breath, and crossed the pavilion to where she reclined. One of the servants was quick to pull up a chair for him. He accepted the seat, and leaned back against the cushion with a sigh. 

“Out with it, then.” Anne said. 

She waved for the servants to leave them, and turned a cunning gaze to him. 

Once they were alone, Philippe met her eyes. 

“I am troubled.” He said, “And you must know, I do not make this request lightly.” 

“No, I imagine you wouldn’t since you are here, and not speaking to Louis.” 

“Louis cannot help me.” Philippe said, cutting his gaze across the fountain to where the palace rose above the trees. “He will not.” 

“Philippe, tell me why you are here.” Anne said, her tone somber. 

Her fingers brushed the back of his hand, drawing his gaze to her. 

“You told me you wanted me to be happy.” He said, “That I could build a home for myself, and find joy in spite of whatever marriage will one day be arranged for me.” 

Anne’s brow furrowed. “Yes.” 

“Perhaps Louis will not accept him, but … I believe I have found that person who will make me happy even when I am compelled to do my duty.” 

“The Chevalier de Lorraine.” Anne said, a wan smile curling her mouth. “Philippe-”

“Yes, he can be frivolous and unscrupulous and a myriad other things unbecoming of a noble - you needn’t remind me. But I do care a great deal for him, and it has come to my knowledge that someone here at the palace has done him wrongly.” 

“Who is this person?” Anne asked. 

Philippe focused on his lap for a moment, before drawing in a deep breath. “Our visitor. The Vicomte de LaFayette.” 

“Do you forget I was present when the Chevalier was accused of theft, and he admitted it, freely?” Anne asked. “It seems to me it is the Chevalier who has done the Vicomte wrongly.” 

“You do not have the entire story.” 

“Which is?” 

“Lorraine was only driven to theft by a great abuse of power and trust.” 

Anne’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?” 

“They were lovers.” Philippe said, “Until LaFayette showed himself to be a malevolent fiend - an abuser.” 

The sound of birds chirping, and the sigh of the wind through the trees filled the silence as Anne processed Philippe’s statement. She shifted her gaze to the gardens, and flipped her fan open with a sharp inhale. 

“Of course, I have heard of many women being struck by their husbands, but a man-”

“Please, do not insult his manhood.” Philippe interrupted, “It was beyond his control.” 

Anne fanned herself briskly, but a growing flush was evident at her throat. She snapped a conflicted gaze back to him. “I do not think you understand what you ask of me.” 

“I understand fully. I do not intend for him to be punished; I do not demand justice - only that he be gone from this place once an agreement with India has been reached.” Philippe said, “Louis has offered him permanent residence here. I know you can change his mind.” 

“He is the king. I am the queen now only in name. It is no longer my place to question his decisions.” 

Philippe released a sigh of frustration, and rose from his chair to pace to the edge of the pavilion. A breeze rushed in across the gardens to soothe the heat frothing at his collar. His mother disregarded her power while he longed for even an iota of the agency she held over Louis. If he had his brother’s ear as she did, LaFayette would have already taken his leave of the palace. 

“Philippe,” Anne said, uttering a quiet sigh. “Please, come sit.” 

He turned to meet her gaze, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

Anne waved him back toward the chair. “Come, and listen to me.” 

Philippe walked slowly back across the pavilion, and sat down next to her. She reached over to take his hand, her thumb stroking gently across his knuckles. 

“As I look back on the years of my life, I long for the youth and freedom I now see in you.” She said, “To be young and carefree again; to take a lover without fear of reprisal, to see the duty of marriage as an unfortunate eventuality and not as a prison. I fear you may never understand all that you have been given, for the simple fact that you were born a man.” 

Philippe averted his gaze, hearing her resounding answer in this thicket of nostalgia.  _ No, I will not help you.  _

Anne’s fingers grasped his chin, turning his eyes back to her own. 

“Philippe,” She said, firmly. “There will be others.” 

“No-”

“Yes.” She said, squeezing his hand. “Yes, there will be others who do not threaten the politics and finances of France.” 

“Perhaps, but none like him.” Philippe insisted, twisting his hand free of her grasp. 

“You convince yourself you love him? That you are duty-bound to protect him?” Anne said, “You forget, you are duty-bound to France, my son; to your king. It is your first priority to stand beside your brother, and support his decisions for the glory of our country.” 

“You speak to me of love?” Philippe demanded, leaping to his feet. “You know nothing of it! I saw you and our father, and there was no love there - only duty. Forgive me, but I will not resign myself to that kind of hollow existence.” 

Anne gazed at him in quiet surprise, her eyes growing misty. 

Philippe turned and marched out of the pavilion, letting his anger carry him away from her, and from the terrible mistake this conversation had become. 

“Philippe!” She cried, her voice echoing among the wind-tossed leaves. “You are walking toward a path you cannot see!” 

Putting his head down, he kept walking until the breeze carried away her warning, and the only sound was his bootheels against the stone path. 

 

~

Philippe found LaFayette in the salon, surrounded by a group of young ladies who hung onto every word he spoke. He was engaging them in a tale of a far-off land when Philippe interjected himself into the tight circle surrounding him. 

LaFayette’s words trailed off into silence as Philippe stood across from him, silently demanding a private audience. 

He cleared his throat. “You’ll have to excuse me, ladies. It seems Monsieur would like urgently to speak with me.” 

Philippe replied with a stiff nod. 

“I’m certain it is of utmost importance.” LaFayette said, casting Philippe a wan smile. “Perhaps his Highness would like to know immediately the name of my silk vendor in China; he does make fine dresses for only the most respected women in France.” 

A muted chuckle circulated through the group of ladies. 

Philippe lifted his chin. “How clever of you. But no, this is not about dresses, but a matter of equal importance.” 

The group of women scattered at the sound of his voice, a few of them glancing back curiously as they departed. 

Philippe wandered to the window overlooking the courtyard with its fountain glittering beneath the clear blue sky. LaFayette joined him, his hands clasped loosely at his waist. 

“I suppose you are here to bargain for a truce.” LaFayette said, his tone lacking the joviality it had held only moments ago. 

“Not a truce. A choice.” 

LaFayette’s gaze flickered across Philippe’s rigid profile. “A choice?” 

“Yes. You may leave now without a struggle.” Philippe said, turning his gaze to LaFayette’s. “Or, I promise you, that the struggle that will come will be neither short nor pleasant.” 

“Are you threatening me?” LaFayette said, uttering an incredulous chuckle. “Does his Majesty know you are here?” 

“Forget my brother.” Philippe said. “He has no say in my actions, or in my favor when it comes to the Chevalier de Lorraine.” 

“Yet, he is still king.” 

“And I am prince, and you but a nobleman subject to the crown.” 

“I am loyal to the crown.” LaFayette said. “To the King, your brother. But, you must understand, I cannot leave now, not without Lorraine; my nature commands it, as does yours.” 

“He is not a piece of property over which you can assert your authority.” 

“No, and some might say that he is hardly a man, not worth the trouble. But it is a matter of respect, you see. He promised himself to me many years ago, and I hold a man to his promises. And his debts.” 

“His debt has been paid. I paid it.” Philippe said, “What more do you demand?” 

“I thought you as a prince might understand.” LaFayette replied, uttering a sigh. He gazed distantly at the treeline beyond the border of the palace. “You want something, you take it. It is the power you have been given all your life. It is in your blood because you are royalty; it is in mine because it always has been, since I can recall, since birth. I want Lorraine simply because I do; and you want him just the same, but I cannot abide it.” 

“So, you will not be satisfied until he is yours in full?” 

“I fear not.” LaFayette said, casting Philippe a thin, condescending smile. 

“Very well.” Philippe said. “I came here to speak to you as two men, logically and fairly; but now, you force me to turn to the only thing you understand - violence.” 

LaFayette’s brow furrowed with a question. 

“Meet me tonight in the south garden.” Philippe said. “Beneath the peach trees. Midnight.” 

“For what purpose?” 

“If you intend to dismiss the Chevalier as a matter of ownership than we shall settle this matter as two men in disagreement do. With a duel.” 

LaFayette’s eyes narrowed with intrigue, but a gradual smile formed on his mouth. 

“What are the stakes?” He asked. 

“Your place here. If I shall win, you will leave. If you succeed in besting me, you stay.” 

“These terms seem a bit one-sided.” LaFayette said. “I’ve already decided to stay, therefore you offer me little incentive to agree.” 

Philippe held LaFayette’s gaze, unflinching despite the doubt crowding in the back of his mind. 

“Very well. If you beat me, you stay … and you may have him.” 

LaFayette’s brow rose. “You would willingly give him to me?” 

“ _ If  _ your sword is faster than mine.” 

LaFayette mulled over the offer for a moment before extending his hand. “We are in agreement, then?” 

Philippe grasped his hand. “Yes.” 

LaFayette’s grip tightened as Philippe attempted to withdraw his hand. He tugged Philippe closer, and leaned in to whisper. “May the best man win. Or in your case, the best woman.” 

Philippe yanked his hand free, and took a step back. 

“Tonight. Midnight.” He said. “Don’t be late.” 

 

~

 

The sun slipped away into darkness without ceremony that evening. A dash of pale pink lit up the sky before fading to the black only moments later. 

Chevalier was abed before the last hints of color had drained from the sky, and the shadows fell long across the bedroom floor. A single candle by the bed kept his tired eyes open, waiting longingly for Philippe to find his way beneath the sheets. 

It seemed the last few days of sleepless abandon, sex, and wine had caught up to him, and he had not the strength to even consider another night passed in waking. A part of him eagerly leaned into the safety that Philippe’s arms provided, while another part knew fully that this conflict had yet to reach its conclusion. Deep in his chest, a small breath was held, waiting for the moment when this delicate facade of intimacy shattered beneath LaFayette’s fist. 

It was past ten when Philippe wandered through the doors, still fully dressed. He acknowledged Chevalier with a nod, but didn’t speak as he removed his shoes and cravat. A slow sigh wound past his lips as he tugged the collar of his shirt open. 

“Is something bothering you?” Chevalier asked, pushing himself up against the mound of pillows. 

“I spoke to my mother.” Philippe said. 

“On my behalf?” 

“And on mine.” 

Chevalier studied his nails, tamping down the instantaneous spark of humiliated anger at the thought of his past being detailed to the Queen Mother of France. 

“Let me guess.” He said, “She refuses to lift a finger when it comes to LaFayette, just the same as the King.” 

Philippe poured himself a glass of wine, and sipped on it quietly. “No.” 

“Are either of us truly surprised by that?” 

Draining the rest of the glass, Philippe turned to gaze at him across the room. The candlelight was scarce, yet bright enough to reveal the glint of despondency in his eyes. 

“No, but I had hoped she may not reject the notion immediately. The man is clearly not worthy of the respect his title earns him.”

“Please.” Chevalier said, scoffing quietly. “It is not in her best interest to help me. She’s never approved of me, you know.” 

Philippe crossed the room to the bed, and sat down on the edge of the mattress. A dim smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as took Chevalier’s hand in his own. 

“None of my family ever has.” He said, “But, they have never approved of many things I do or say.” 

Chevalier squeezed Philippe’s hand, and swallowed back the emotion that was quick to rise in the back of his throat. 

“If it is so hopeless, perhaps we should leave.” Chevalier said, “What of your new home in Saint Cloud? I know it isn’t finished, but it is still four walls and roof that LaFayette cannot touch. We could-”

“Run?” Philippe interrupted, casting him a sharp glance. “I do not think so. I am the prince; the king’s brother. I will find a way to be rid of him.” 

Chevalier turned onto his back, and stared petulantly at the ceiling. 

“I wish I had never told you any of it.” He whispered. 

“I may never have forgiven you if you hadn’t.” Philippe said. 

“You very nearly didn’t.” 

Philippe shifted closer to him, and leaned over to stroke Chevalier’s cheek. “I had to.” 

“Yes?” Chevalier murmured, turning his chin against the soft caress of Philippe’s fingers. 

“Mhmm.” Philippe muttered, bending to kiss him on the mouth. “It was those other boys you were toying with that made me realize.” 

“Realize what?” 

“A guiltier man would have tried harder to get back into my good graces.” Philippe said, “Someone else would have begged and pleaded, but not you.” 

“That would have pleased you?” 

“Yes, but I realized no amount of begging or bargaining would have been enough for me. I already have all the proof I need.” 

“Proof of how deeply I care for you?” Chevalier asked, pressing a kiss to the inside of Philippe’s wrist, “How much I need you … yearn for you?”

Philippe nodded, his response caught up in a moan as Chevalier turned the kiss from his wrist to his mouth. Their lips joined and caressed, fitting snugly together as if they had been made for this embrace, as if they should continue on like this for the rest of their lives. 

Chevalier pushed himself upright, and clutched Philippe’s cheeks to deepen the kiss. Philippe grasped at his nightshirt when Chevalier’s tongue slipped past his lips and arched forward to explore the sweet, trembling region beyond. His mouth melted to complacience beneath Chevalier’s ardor, his tongue arching forward to meet the determined push of Chevalier’s. 

When the kiss broke apart, they both breathed heavily, hot exhales filling the scant space between their mouths. 

“Let me show you how much.” Chevalier whispered, stroking the curve of Philippe’s cheekbone. 

Philippe blinked, a moment of hesitation slipping past the haze of need in his eyes. 

_ He still wonders.  _ Chevalier thought.  _ And I must drive that notion out of his head.  _

“Yes.” Philippe whispered. 

His gaze darted away the next moment, searching downward to find Chevalier’s erection tenting his nightgown. His fingers slipped from the neckline of the garment, and caught Chevalier’s cock through the generous fabric. 

Chevalier tamped down a moan as Philippe’s palm dragged the soft cotton across aching flesh, stirring maddening want deep inside him. 

He caught Philippe’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, and lifted his head again so that their eyes could meet. He could see the lie shining clearly in his eyes, but he wished not to pursue it now that their bodies were so close. The smallest touch from Philippe could encite his blood to race quick and thunderous to his nether regions, drowning out all other motivations. His mouth and saliva were aphrodisiacal, sweet enough to enrich even the sourest of thoughts and moods. After their time spent apart, he was more than willing to submerge himself in a haze of pleasure at Philippe’s hand rather than face the unpleasantness of reality that still lingered just beyond their closed door. 

He reached down to stroke between Philippe’s legs, pushing aside the heavy folds of his trousers to find his cock growing hard. For a moment, they gazed deeply into one another’s eyes as their hands pleasured the other. 

Chevalier groaned, and leaned forward to kiss Philippe firmly and hungrily. When their mouths parted, he nearly choked on the demanding need. 

“I want to take you.” He whispered, the words rushing from his chest in a raspy burst. 

Philippe’s eyes darted up to meet his. The doubt had been glazed over with arousal, leaving only the fleshly thoughts of pleasure that now dragged his mouth open in a gasp. He nodded, his fingers clenching around Chevalier’s cock.

He readily complied as Chevalier urged him onto his back, and pushed his thighs open. His eyelids fluttered open, gazing up at Chevalier with a yearning that gripped Chevalier’s chest; his heart stammered like a caged bird, enchanted by the beauty of it. 

Chevalier bent to kiss Philippe’s plush, gasping lips as he tugged open the buttons of Philippe’s breeches, and reached in to caress the rigid length of his pulsing cock. Philippe’s hips arched into the grasp, and a muted cry split their mouths apart. 

His eyes raced up to claim Chevalier’s as his mouth moved in a silent plea. 

Chevalier stroked him gently, nurturing the pleasure quickly expanding in the dark territory of Philippe’s pupils. 

“Will you allow me?” Chevalier whispered, leaning so close that their noses touched. 

Philippe’s forehead pushed against his as he gasped. “Yes.” 

Chevalier drew back abruptly, and scrambled to his knees between Philippe’s pliant legs. He divested Philippe of his breeches, and hurried to open the front of his vest. Twisting free of the vest, Philippe cast it aside just as Chevalier discarded his nightgown over his head, and pushed between Philippe’s bare thighs.  

Bending to claim Philippe’s mouth in a hungry kiss, Chevalier arched his cock into Philippe’s equally swollen erection. The hard flesh collided with desperate force, and they groaned in unison.

Chevalier’s mouth stroked over Philippe’s as he reached up to find the vial sitting in its spot on the nightstand. When it was in his palm, he leaned back to survey Philippe’s pale, half-dressed body squirming in needy disarray beneath him. 

Philippe’s teeth dragged across his lower lip. Their eyes met as Chevalier’s gradual perusal came to an end. Reading the desires in Chevalier’s eyes, he withdrew his legs from around Chevalier’s waist, and rolled onto his stomach to offer his naked backside. 

Chevalier slid his palm up the back of Philippe’s leg to grasp the supple flesh, and opened the vial of oil with his other hand. 

Philippe cast a hazy glance over his shoulder that quickly disappeared behind the squeezed shutter of his eyelids when Chevalier dampened him with oil, and pressed his fingers inside. 

“Oh, God.” He moaned, arching into the slow, steady pressure of Chevalier’s fingers. 

“Oh, yes.” 

Chevalier pumped his fingers in and out, slowly lathering him in oil and coaxing him open. Philippe’s shoulders drew taut as he grasped the edge of the mattress, bracing himself against the firm, decisive push of Chevalier’s fingers. He whimpered quietly with each thrust, the sounds growing higher and more frantic as the ministration stretched on. He gathered his knees under himself, and pulled them to his chest, leaving himself stretched open to Chevalier’s hand. 

“Enough.” He groaned, at last, turning a needy gaze over his shoulder. “Do it.  _ Now _ .” 

Chevalier withdrew his fingers, and retrieved the discarded bottle of oil from the sheets. He quickly slicked his cock with a generous amount, and pressed his cock to Philippe’s blushing opening.

Philippe’s slender back arched exquisitely as Chevalier pressed his cock inside. He reached up to brace his hands against the headboard, holding himself steady through the first few shallow thrusts. With little coaxing, his body opened to take Chevalier in his entirety, bringing their flesh together with a resolute slap. 

“Oh, God, yes.” Philippe moaned, looking back at Chevalier with a wild gleam of arousal in his eyes. 

Chevalier grasped a handful of his raven curls, and dragged him upright, onto his lap. Philippe spilled back against him, seated beautifully on his cock and crying out in pleasure at the fullness. Chevalier palmed his shuddering hips, and urged him to rock back and forth, creating divine friction that jarred a guttural moan from his throat. 

“Oh, Christ, that’s good.” Chevalier rasped against the back of Philippe’s neck. 

Clinging to the headboard for support, Philippe rocked back against the rising thrust of Chevalier’s hips. 

“Yes.” He panted, in return. “Harder …” 

Chevalier’s hips clapped against Philippe’s backside, jarring a high-pitched wail of pleasure from Philippe’s throat. He clung to the headboard, his knuckles blanched with the force of his grasp. He sucked in a raspy breath as Chevalier’s thrusts smacked resolutely against him, fulfilling his request instantly. 

“God, yes.” He groaned, his voice dropping to a raspy growl of choked need. “Like that … I want-” 

The plea dropped off into another howl of pleasure as Chevalier’s cock plowed into him from behind. He reached down to grip the back of Chevalier’s hand where Chevalier grasped his hip, urging on the passionate abandon. 

“I want you to break me.” He rasped, his head falling back against Chevalier’s.  

Chevalier’s teeth scraped against Philippe’s shoulder as an overwhelmed groan of arousal rolled up through his chest and past his lips. Adjusting his grip on Philippe’s hips, he thrust into him, building to a deep, rhythmic pace that Philippe matched with his own. The bed protested beneath them as Philippe clung to the wooden frame to brace himself against the powerful blows of Chevalier’s hips, but their cries of pleasure were much louder, overlapping one another in a broken chorus of breathless gasps and throaty groans. 

Chevalier was the first to break, far too overwrought with need to hold himself back from the enticing grip of release. Try as he might for some semblance of longevity, he always found himself crippled by the pleasure when it was Philippe was with, as if he had reverted to some youthful version of himself, untainted by all that had happened between that moment and now. The pleasure that overcame him now was pure and unadulterated; he thought not of LaFayette, or the conflict so newly passed. 

Only when he opened his eyes to find them sinking to the sheets, and Philippe’s gaze clinging hungrily to his own did he recall what had spurred him to this moment. 

“Oh, mignonnet, you give me the greatest pleasure.” He sighed as Philippe settled against the sheets facing him.

 His cock still lay hard as a rock against his thigh, begging for Chevalier to touch him and bring him relief. 

Chevalier stroked his cheek, gazing into Philippe’s eyes, fraught with need. He leaned in to whisper in Philippe’s ear as he reached down to stroke his cock. “I missed fucking that sweet, tight little hole of yours.” 

Philippe shuddered as Chevalier’s fingers thrilled his cock. 

“Is this why you denied me this morning?” Chevalier murmured, relishing Philippe’s whimpers. “To make it all the sweeter?” 

Philippe arched against him with a gasp as Chevalier toyed with the folds of foreskin tucked below his swollen, seeping head. 

“Perhaps.” He moaned. 

Chevalier fixed his gaze on Philippe’s pleasure-stricken expression as he slid down to bring his mouth level with Philippe’s cock. He dragged his thumb down the shaft, feeling every twitch and throb. 

“You make me wild.” Chevalier whispered, his breath spilling hot over Philippe’s cock. “I think I shall ravish you until morning.” 

Philippe cried out as Chevalier took his cock into his mouth, and sucked wetly down the shaft. The flesh pulsed against his tongue, verging on orgasm with the first stroke. Grasping him by the root, Chevalier sucked him in and out, slowly, torturously, stirring the need deeply within him yet withholding the friction that would tip him over the edge. 

Philippe writhed beneath him, tearing at the sheets and Chevalier’s hair while the pleasure edged closer and closer. When Chevalier tasted the first drops of release, he divested his mouth of Philippe’s cock, letting it fall swollen and inflamed against his belly. 

Philippe’s head fell back against the pillows with an incensed groan. “Damn you.” 

Chevalier chuckled, and drew his fingertips down Philippe’s slick, twitching cock. The flesh leapt against his caress, giving forth a pearly drop of pre-cum that clung to the raw, puffy opening. His hips arched into the caress, nonetheless, accepting what little friction he could get. 

His gaze darted down to where Chevalier lounged between his thighs, a devilish smile curling his mouth. 

“I shan’t make it till morning if you continue on this way.” Philippe whispered, each word tumbling brokenly from his lips. 

“You shall.” Chevalier assured, taking Philippe’s enraged cock gently in his palm. “I will make certain of it.” 

Philippe gave a choked cry as Chevalier’s stroking hand guided his cock back to his mouth. He arched against the sheets at the first wet stroke of Chevalier’s tongue, lapping up the little bits of release squeezing eagerly from him. 

Chevalier hummed as he savored the distinct taste, and rubbed Philippe’s cockhead against the wet seam of his lips. 

Philippe’s eyes, glazed with need, raced down to watch as Chevalier’s lips curled around the head, before allowing it to slip free again. 

“You mean to torture me now.” He whispered. 

“Only a bit longer.” 

Chevalier muttered a laugh as he opened his mouth to take the eager thrust of Philippe’s cock. Philippe clutched his hair, forcing his head down, and blocking all thought of further teasing. Chevalier was eager to oblige, having had his fill of Philippe’s writhing and pleading; he set his mouth firmly to Philippe’s cock, and sucked ardently until he tasted the hint of saltiness that signaled the end. 

Philippe came with a strangled cry. His hips locked tight against Chevalier’s face when it struck, and broke free into spasms of ecstatic pleasure. The flavor of his release filled Chevalier’s mouth, jetting warm and abundant against the back of his tongue. He swallowed it down, eager to prove his devotion. 

As the power of Philippe’s spasms faded, Chevalier let his cock slide from his mouth. The flesh quickly softened against his thigh as Chevalier shifted back up against the sheets to lay beside him. 

Philippe rolled onto his side, nestling his head against Chevalier’s shoulder. Despite the spirited banter they’d shared only moments ago, they now fell into silent repose, in which Chevalier could hear the roar of Philippe’s thoughts.

 His own thoughts joined the clamor, seized by the wonder that was Philippe’s forgiveness; only days ago they were in separate rooms, angry with one another, with the misunderstanding that stood between them. Chevalier had raised nary a finger to orchestrate their reunion, and yet, here he was, thoroughly pleasured and back in Philippe’s arms. He had been chosen by the best that there was in this world. 

Philippe lifted his head from Chevalier’s chest. 

“You’re somber.” He said, placing his hand where his head had rested. 

“It’s just that you’ve exhausted me, mignonnet.” Chevalier said, gathering a carefree smile. 

“So soon?” Philippe asked, “You’ve just promised to ravish me all night.” 

“Did I?” 

“Quite passionately, I might add.” 

Chevalier hummed a response. The opposite was, in fact, true. The tiredness he’d experienced upon crawling into bed had fled the moment Philippe kissed him, leaving him now with his alert and winding thoughts that seemed to grow deeper every day that LaFayette remained at the palace. 

Philippe dropped a kiss on his forehead. “Very well. I will leave you to your rest, but I hope to find you refreshed and hard again upon my return.” 

Chevalier frowned as Philippe swung his legs over the edge of the bed and rose to his feet. 

“Where are you going?” He asked. 

Philippe tugged his breeches back on, and focused on fastening the buttons. 

“There is a matter I must attend to.” He said. 

“It’s nearly midnight. What other engagement besides me could you possibly have this late at night?” 

Philippe gave him a stiff smile. “It’s important. Trust me.” 

Chevalier pushed himself upright, dubious concern crowding past the lingering hum of pleasure. “Philippe? What are you up to?” 

Ignoring his query, Philippe retrieved his vest from the floor, and returned to the desk where he had left his cravat. 

“Stay here.” He said, casting Chevalier a serious gaze. “Get some sleep. I’ll be back before you know it.” 

“You cannot say such things, and then leave me wonder!” Chevalier protested, but Philippe had already turned to leave. 

Chevalier remained in the bed until Philippe left the room, and he heard the outer door swing shut behind him. The moment the door latched again, he leaped out of bed, and hastily dressed himself. He rushed to the door, and cracked it open to peer down the hallway. He could see Philippe standing at the end of the corridor with two Musketeers, one of which was extending a sword to the prince. Philippe took the sword and sheath, and strapped it around his waist. Exchanging a few more words, the three disappeared around the corner and out of Chevalier’s sight. 

He let the door fall shut again with a sigh of disbelief. His mind rushed to conclusions, to threads of possibilities, to futures in which Philippe did not live to see morning. He had said he would find a way to be rid of LaFayette, but it seemed he had already come to a decision as to how he would do it. 

Chevalier felt a simultaneous surge of pride and anger. His dear Philippe. So devoted; too devoted. He’d spent the last hour abed with Chevalier, enjoying the pleasure of his company and his touch all the while knowing he was about to challenge a man who was willing to kill to get what he wanted - all of it for Chevalier, so that he could sleep better at night with LaFayette gone, so that they could have a future without that shadow hanging over them. 

_ I can’t let him do this.  _ Chevalier thought. 

He marched across the room to the cabinet where he knew Philippe kept things of importance; he pulled the pistol from the silk folds it was hidden amongst and held the weight of it in both hands. The metal was cold against his palm. Chevalier drew in a deep breath, and quickly searched for powder with which to load it. 

 


	10. The Duel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, dear readers, its a double-feature for the final update of this story. Thanks to everyone who read along and commented, and enjoy these last two chapters. I hope everyone enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing it <3

Philippe paid the two Musketeers handsomely to keep silent about his plans. The last thing he wanted was for Louis to be alerted about a midnight duel amongst the peach trees, and rush out to save his little brother from his own stupidity. At least, that scenario is how Louis would see it. For Philippe, it would be yet another slap in the face from a hand he had once dearly loved. 

The two men walking behind him through the orchard were silent even now. He’d brought them along as a last resort. He wanted to win this fight on his own merit, but he knew LaFayette held no qualms about cheating. He wasn’t willing to give his life to this man’s sword. 

When they reached the cluster of peach trees, Philippe held his hand up to signal for them to hang back. He entered the sea of pink and green blossoms alone, his gaze searching through the darkness for LaFayette. 

A twig snapping to his left drew his gaze to a break in the leaves where LaFayette emerged. Amongst the shadows, he was even more the seething presence of a demon Philippe knew him to be rather than the jovial nobleman who he’d spoken to earlier in the salon. 

“Your Highness.” LaFayette said, bowing his head out of respect despite their circumstance. 

“Vicomte.” Philippe said, noting the sword on his hip. “I see you’ve come prepared. Let us not waste any time.” 

“And you came prepared as well.” LaFayette said, glancing past the low-hanging boughs at the two Musketeers waiting a few yards off. “You did not mention them as a part of your stipulations.” 

“Forgive me if I do not trust you to engage in a fair fight.” 

“A duel is two men, not four.” LaFayette said. “Send them away, or I shall leave at once.” 

Philippe held his gaze. He questioned his own sanity even as he waved a hand at the two guards. “Return to the palace.” He called across the orchard. 

The Musketeers hesitated. 

“At once!” Philippe ordered, swinging a commanding gaze to them. 

At the sharp ring of his voice, they turned, and marched back toward the safety of the palace, leaving Philippe and LaFayette alone amongst the sweet-smelling branches weighed heavily with new fruit. 

“If you kill me, they will know who did it.” Philippe said. 

“That would be rather stupid of me, wouldn't it?” LaFayette said, approaching Philippe with a casual smile. “No, I will not kill you, Monsieur, but I may maim you; and I do hope you came here tonight with the realization that blood may be drawn.” 

“I do not fear pain.” Philippe said, setting his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“No, I don’t imagine you would.” LaFayette said, withdrawing his blade slowly from the sheath so that the scrape of metal cut shrilly through the night air. “You cannot fear what you have never experienced.” 

Philippe drew his own sword, and swung it easily in hand. 

“You think me a fool for challenging you.” He said, pointing the blade at LaFayette. “You think because I occasionally enjoy women’s clothing that I am soft and dull in the head, but my dream since childhood has been war, conquest on the battlefield. And for that, I must know how to handle a blade. My mother saw to it that I was trained by only best of swordsmen in France.” 

LaFayette’s brows rose, though he maintained his confident posture. “You do surprise me yet, Highness, but practice does not equal experience.” 

“Nor do words equal triumph.” Philippe said, shifting his feet into position. He held the sword aloft, challenging LaFayette to do the same. “Should we cross swords, or would you rather talk one another to death?” 

“Very well.”

LaFayette took up a defensive stance that mirrored Philippe’s, and raised his sword. 

They circled one another, their boots shuffling through the thick grass in the quiet of the orchard. LaFayette watched him closely, likely judging his poise and his footwork. He yet doubted that Philippe knew how to handle his sword, the way all men question women’s intelligence. A woman. That was how LaFayette saw him; after tonight, no more. 

Philippe struck first, allowing LaFayette the assumption of his impulsivity; but his aim landed true, and LaFayette scrambled back to avoid the blow. Their blades met low, near LaFayette’s face, the sound of their ringing slashing through the quiet night. LaFayette grunted, forcing Philippe’s blade back with powerful shove. 

They broke apart, and Philippe regained his footing just before LaFayette lunged. LaFayette’s sword slashed through the air, cutting inches short of Philippe’s stomach. Philippe leaped back, and swung his blade down and across LaFayette’s, knocking it away. They advanced through the trees, following the narrow footpath through the low branches. Their blades met again and again, ringing like a frantically tolling bell through the otherwise peaceful evening air. 

Philippe cut away into the trees as LaFayette surged closer. As he ducked behind a branch, LaFayette’s sword slashed against the trunk of the tree, shaking loose the flowering buds. A rain of pale pink petals showered them as Philippe turned sharply from behind the tree to swing his sword at Lafayette’s neck. The tip of LaFayette’s sword caught the brunt of the blow, but the momentum carried the edge of Philippe's blade across his shoulder. 

LaFayette shouted in pain as blood sprang bright and red across the white sleeve of his shirt. He backed away, holding his sword aloft with a shaking grip. 

“Cunt.” He rasped, his eyes flaring with anger. “For that, I will hurt you.” 

“It was you who said blood would be drawn.” Philippe replied, approaching with his sword raised. “Can you yourself not take the sight of it?” 

With a growl, LaFayette sprang across the grass to parry swiftly with his blade. 

Philippe met his strokes with a rash of his own, keeping LaFayette at a distance with deft footwork. They weaved among the trees, LaFayette driving madly forward, Philippe leaping, ducking, and cutting with his sword, matching anger with speed. 

LaFayette did not weary even as their blades shattered the air with a metallic shriek that echoed louder and faster with every second. He was fueled by rage, a powerful potion that steadily wore down Philippe’s sprightly, less forceful parries. 

With a swift, downward cutting blow, he locked the hilts of their swords together, and leveraged Philippe back against the trunk of a tree. Philippe’s back slammed into the bark, robbing him momentarily of his breath. He clung to his sword, pushing back against LaFayette’s stronger grasp that pushed the blade ever closer to his face. 

“Submit, Highness.” LaFayette hissed, his lips pulling back from his teeth in an ugly, mirthless smile. 

“Never.” Philippe panted. 

Pushing back against LaFayette’s weight, he managed to clear just enough room so that he could slip down against the trunk of the tree. He sank to the ground for only a moment before surging back upwards, driving his shoulder into LaFayette’s stomach. 

LaFayette stumbled backwards, gasping for breath even as Philippe lunged to his feet. Philippe darted forward, sweeping his blade in from the side to through the air near LaFayette’s navel. LaFayette staggered backwards, barely escaping the cut of the sword. Righting his blade, he met Philippe’s next thrust with his own. 

Even further incensed, he launched this next series of attacks with a ferocity that drove Philippe back into the denser part of the orchard. With trees surrounding them, the moon was all but blocked out, shuttering them in near darkness that made it difficult to parse opponent from shadow. 

One poor block, and LaFayette darted to his left, out of reach of his sword. Philippe swung wildly, but LaFayette had already ducked behind him. Thrusting the heel of his boot into the back of Philippe’s knee, he sent Philippe to the grass on his knees, a cry of pain hanging on his tongue. LaFayette’s blade pressed against his neck, the steel cold against his flushed skin. 

LaFayette circled slowly around to gaze down coldly at him. “Drop the blade.”

“You cheated.” Philippe said, his voice raspy and broken with exertion. 

“No, I defeated you - easily.” LaFayette replied, pressing his sword tightly beneath Philippe’s chin. “Now drop it.” 

“You mean to kill me.” 

“Again - no.” LaFayette said, stepping closer. 

Holding the edge of the sword against Philippe’s neck, he bent down to twist Philippe’s sword from his hand. He tossed the blade across the grass, where it landed out of reach several feet away. 

Philippe’s gaze shifted between the glint of his lost weapon, and LaFayette’s eyes, glittering with satisfaction. 

“It is not blood I thrive on.” LaFayette said, “Unlike you, it is not war I dream of, but conquest. True conquest. You don’t understand the meaning of it, because your authority has never been questioned …  _ my prince. _ ” 

Philippe swallowed against the taut press of the blade as LaFayette shifted closer. He thought momentarily of attempting to duck from the sword, and make his escape, but he quickly discarded the notion. Though LaFayette claimed he did not intend to kill him, Philippe knew the man would not hesitate to hurt him. 

“What greater conquest is there for me than to take a prince?” LaFayette asked, reaching down to stroke Philippe’s cheek. 

Philippe yanked his chin away, but LaFayette grasped him by the hair, yanking his head back. A whimper of pain crowded at the back of his throat as LaFayette held his throat open to the sharp press of his blade. He felt the flesh begin to yield, but LaFayette held his hand in check just before it could draw blood. 

“Do you think you have ever truly been taken?” LaFayette said, bending down to gaze into Philippe’s wide eyes. “Do you think someone like Lorraine could really, truly … thoroughly fuck you?”  He chuckled quietly, his gaze raking down Philippe’s flushed cheeks to the pale length of his throat. “You don’t know the meaning of the word … yet.” 

Stubborn silence held between them as their gazes clashed, parrying wordless blows as defiant as swords. 

From their left, the sound of a twig snapping beneath a bootheel drew their attention from the war raging quietly between them. A figure emerged from the shadows, tremulously holding a pistol aloft. The sound of the hammer clicking backwards into firing position cut through the dense night air. 

“Release him.” 

Philippe gasped in a breath at the sound of Chevalier’s voice, announcing his identity just before his face broke free of the shadows. 

LaFayette kept the blade tight against Philippe’s throat as he straightened to look upon Chevalier with an expression of disbelief and amusement. 

“Lorraine.” He said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t realize you were invited to this duel.” 

“I wasn't.” Chevalier said, approaching across the grass with the gun set firmly at LaFayette’s face. “I invited myself.” 

“Surely you don’t mean to use that.” LaFayette said. 

“I do, if you do not release him.” 

LaFayette studied Chevalier’s stony expression for a moment before tilting his head back in a riff of laughter. “I do not believe this. You are a coward, Lorraine; you don’t have the steel in your belly to pull that trigger.” 

Philippe’s gaze darted between the two, his heart pounding wildly. He too questioned Chevalier’s courage to fire the pistol, but perhaps his presence alone was distraction enough for Philippe to extricate himself from LaFayette’s grip without being wounded. 

Grasping the pistol with both hands, Chevalier advanced toward LaFayette. He paused just a few feet away, holding the barrel of the gun aimed at Lafayette’s temple. 

“You have taught me much about courage, Rene.” Chevalier said, his voice trembling. “How many times do you think you can strike a person down before they rise up against you?” 

“In your case, many more - I should think.” LaFayette said, “This display means nothing to me; you should run along back to the palace, to the salons where you belong. This here, this private little war between Philippe and I, is not a place for lily-livered, craven fools such as yourself.” 

Chevalier gazed at LaFayette, his eyes growing cold beneath the sheen of wetness. Drawing in a short, quivering breath, he glanced down at Philippe, and adjusted his grasp on the pistol. With a blink of his eyelids, the gleam of fear was gone, replaced by an almost wan acceptance. 

“Very well, then.” He said. 

Philippe’s mind screamed in despair as he lowered the pistol, holding it loosely at his waist for a moment, before raising it to his own temple. 

LaFayette’s amusement cut short, his cold disdain abruptly awash with realization and a hint of fear. 

“It’s not him you want.” Chevalier said, his fingers curling white-knuckled against the gun. “It’s me. And I would rather die than let you lay another finger on me.” 

LaFayette’s gaze flickered down for half a second, just long enough for Philippe to glimpse the hesitation overcoming the confidence in his eyes. 

“You won’t do it.” He said, cutting his gaze back to Chevalier. “You probably haven’t even loaded it properly.” 

“It’s loaded well enough.” Chevalier said, holding the gun tighter to his head. 

Philippe twisted against the press of LaFayette’s blade, forgetting his own safety in his eagerness to dissuade Chevalier. 

“Lorraine.” He whispered, “Don’t be a fool. He’s not going to kill me.” 

“No, he won’t.” Chevalier said, his gaze fixed steadily on LaFayette. “But I know what he will do instead; and I won’t allow it.” 

“You will.” LaFayette said.  “You will because you are spineless fool who has never thought of anyone before himself.” 

“I’ve changed.” Chevalier said, his mouth compressing against the quiver building in chest. “You changed me, Rene. If you think I won’t do it, then it is you who are the fool.” 

“You would sacrifice yourself for him? I don’t think so.” 

“And you would kill a good, innocent person for me? Look at what you are doing! You’ve changed just as much, Rene. I don’t recognize you anymore.” 

“No, darling; you’ve simply forgotten.” LaFayette said, drawing in a steadying breath through his nose. “The lengths I will go for what is mine - that has not changed.” 

Grasping Philippe’s hair tighter, LaFayette tugged his head farther back, so that the blade rested taut against the thin barrier of flesh that stood between his throat and steel. Philippe struggled not to breathe, as the slightest rise of his throat forced his skin against the edge of the blade. 

“Now.” LaFayette said, turning his gaze firmly back to Chevalier. “Stop this charade immediately, or I will cut him. You will watch him bleed onto the ground, and all of this will have been for naught.” 

Chevalier’s hand trembled around the pistol. His gaze darted between Philippe and LaFayette, moisture swelling up against the determination in his eyes.

“It is you has forgotten.” He whispered. A tear trembled against his eyelid before breaking free, and streaking down his cheek. “The things I would have done for you when I thought you meant to love for life. The lengths I would have gone to keep that feeling alive inside me, even when I knew that dream was dead. You could have ordered me to leap off a bridge, I would have done it.” 

Thick silence swelled as Chevalier’s tearful cry echoed down the hall of rustling foliage. In the dark of the night, a wolf cried out, wounded and alone, but the three men heard only the gradual crumble of  a long-kept facade fading to ash at the brazen touch of truth. 

Chevalier drew in a shuddering breath against the tears freely spilling down his cheeks. His knuckles blanched as he held the weapon taut against his temple, his finger hovering over the trigger.  

“Now, you best believe me, If you kill him, I will pull this trigger - I swear I will.” He whispered, his voice mottled with tears. “I swear it, Rene; you will never touch me again. I will never hear you again, will never feel the blow of your fist again; I will never  _ be with you  _ again! Do you hear me?” 

A sob burst past the desperate tirade, and Chevalier’s hand began to shake around pistol; yet even as the tears streaked down his cheeks, his finger tightened around the trigger, threatening to end this moment with one devastating explosion. 

LaFayette released a grunt of frustrated disbelief. Shaking his head, he growled, “Lorraine, you bloody fool.” 

His fist released Philippe’s hair, and he dropped his sword to the ground. Darting across the grass, he seized Chevalier’s wrist, and yanked the gun clear of his head. Chevalier lurched away from him, his fist curling around the gun in the ensuing struggle. The pistol went off with a deafening crack that reverberated through the orchard.

Philippe lunged to his feet, swiping the fallen sword from the ground as he rushed up behind LaFayette. He brought the handle of his sword down across the back of LaFayette’s head, ending the struggle with one last parry. 

The thick, metal grip connected with LaFayette’s head with a sickening crack that sent him crumpling to the ground. He barked a sound of pain before lapsing against the grass in semi-consciousness. 

Philippe pressed his sword beneath LaFayette’s chin. He drew in a steadying breath, soothing the stammering of his heart as the Vicomte slowly regained awareness. 

Groaning, LaFayette lifted a hand to clutch the back of his head. His eyelids fluttered open, gradually coming to hazy focus on Philippe and Chevalier. 

“I trust you will hold true to our agreement.” Philippe said, “You will leave this place, and never return.” 

“You cheated.” 

“No. I defeated you.” Philippe said, “ _ We  _ defeated you.” 

He felt Chevalier’s hand clutching his elbow, squeezing so tightly it might yet leave a bruise. 

“Louis will have your head for this.” LaFayette said, shifting his gaze to Chevalier.

“I won’t let anything happen to him.” Philippe said, “And whatever punishment may befall me for this night, it pales in comparison to what I will do to you if I ever see your face here again.” 

LaFayette’s gaze shifted between them for a long moment. Anger, astonishment, despair, and acceptance cycled across his face in silence. There were no words from the fallen foe - no pompous claims, no threats, no promises; only vacant disbelief and a fresh humiliation that he had yet to experience in his life. 

“Your Highness!” 

The two Musketeers who had accompanied Philippe earlier burst through the trees, drawn back to the scene of the dual by the sound of the pistol firing. 

“Are you quite all right, your Highness?” One of them pressed. 

“I’m fine.” Philippe said, taking a step back from LaFayette. “I want you to see this man out of the palace. He’s not to return.” 

“But your, Highness, the King-”

“I order you!” Philippe shouted, “Do it now, or I will have the both of you ejected from the court alongside him.” 

The two men rushed forward to obey, but LaFayette staggered to his feet with his hands raised. 

“You need not drag me away in chains.” He said, his gaze fixed coldly on Philippe. “I will leave of my own accord.” 

“You submit then?” Philippe asked. 

“A nobleman should always be keen enough to realize when he’s outstayed his welcome.” LaFayette said, smiling thinly. “I will be on my way; but the King should know it is the fault of you and Lorraine that he will not have his charter with India.” 

“That threat does not frighten me.” Philippe said, “In time, my brother will forgive me.” 

LaFayette scoffed a coarse chuckle. He turned to leave, but his gaze caught on Chevalier, lingering with a strange tenderness that Philippe had not seen before. 

“I suppose this is the last I will see of you.” LaFayette said. 

“Yes.” Chevalier replied, his arm looping tighter around Philippe’s. “You will think of me every day, I’m sure.” 

“You do bewitch me.” LaFayette said, his mouth curling in a wry smile. 

Chevalier nodded, drawing in a shaky breath that swelled with teary relief. “Yes. But I won’t think of you, Rene. I’m going to forget your face, and that you ever touched me.” 

“Is that all I did? Here, our recollections differ again. I did love you, Lorraine.” 

“And perhaps I loved you one time. But now, I don’t think you truly know what that word means.” 

“Because I’ve struck you? In a moment of blind passion, and lovesick madness?”  LaFayette pressed, a choked laugh breaking past the mist growing in his once cold eyes. “No one will ever be more devoted to you, to having you completely. If that condemns me, then perhaps none of us in this cruel, dark world know what love means.” 

Chevalier shifted closer to Philippe. The chirp of crickets rose up to fill the silence stretching loud and long as the chasm ripped permanently, irreparably between them. 

“I do know what it means.” Chevalier whispered. 

Philippe slipped his arm around Chevalier’s waist, and held him closer. He fixed his gaze to the ground, unwilling - unable - to intrude upon this bitter farewell. He saw it all clearly now; the past, their affair, the rift that had eventually torn them apart, and all the things that had drawn them poisonously back together. And he regretted ever blaming Chevalier for what had happened, in the past and even now in the present with the ring of blades still sharp in his ear, and the threat of death yet ghosting at his throat. 

When the silence stretched on, Philippe raised his eyes to see LaFayette departing between the flowering branches. The Musketeers followed on either side, escorting him from the orchard down a path of pink and green life. 

When he was gone, Philippe turned his gaze to Chevalier. His misty, green eyes were fixed on the path LaFayette had taken, even as the twirling petals loosened by breeze fell to take his place. The gentle breeze had dried his tears, leaving only the faint outline of his anguish down his cheeks. 

“That was very foolish of you.” Philippe murmured. 

He reached down to wrest the pistol from Chevalier’s loose fingers, and tossed the weapon to the ground. 

“It was you who was foolish.” Chevalier said, his watery gaze shifting from the trees to Philippe. “You shouldn’t have challenged him; it was impossible to win.” 

“But, we did win.” 

“Yes; but if I hadn’t been such a keen observer, perhaps they would have found you here in the morning … dead, or worse-”

“Stop.” Philippe said, pressing his fingers to Chevalier’s trembling lips. “Don’t think of it. It’s done now.” 

Sniffling, Chevalier nodded, and caught Philippe’s hand in his palm. He pressed his mouth to Philippe’s knuckles, letting the kiss linger and cement in memory. 

The wind shifted, bearing across the orchard to make the branches creak and the leaves sing. Pink petals swirled around them in a sweet-smelling, dizzying dance. Silence rose up to smother whatever helpless attempts at conversation they might have tried. 

_ What was there to say?  _ Philippe wondered. 

There were a dozen silly and dramatic proclamations like “I love you.” Someone else may have flung out those three words with abandon in the wake of such thrilling events. Someone else may have been driven to that blind passion in the heat of the moment, making promises they could not keep; yet, as much as Philippe felt for the man in his arms, he could not dislodge such a bold statement from his chest. It seemed too dangerous and foreign for the two of them, as if the moment they said it, all that grew between them would turn to dust in the wind, carried away into the dark of night the same as the peach blossoms. 

Instead of speaking, Philippe held Chevalier closer, and branded his mouth with a kiss. It was a statement enough, at least for now. 

Lacing his fingers through Chevalier’s, he tugged him toward the path leading back toward the palace. 

“Come on.” He said. “It’s late.” 

Chevalier followed him wordlessly through the canopy of trees. When they reached the end of the path, the great stone edifice of the Palais-Royale loomed above them, holding their future in the palm of its hand. Their life was here; and it pained Philippe that all their hopes and dreams of a life together might be dashed by one night, by one man. 

He glanced over at Chevalier, and mustered a reassuring smile. Though he did not feel it, he had to be the strong half in this relationship at the moment. The wounds he’d been dealt were physical and would easily fade, but the pain he saw written on Chevalier’s face wouldn’t heal with time; they would scar, but forever they would be a reminder of the past. 

Chevalier said nothing. He slipped his arm through Philippe’s, and started across the stone courtyard with his chin raised. 

Philippe doubted he would say anything more of LaFayette after this night; and perhaps it was for the best. Philippe had no stomach for further talk of the man. 

Silently, they walked arm-in-arm through the quiet halls of the palace. The place was serene as a chapel after mass, all the people gone, only the prayers left behind. The intrusion of their footfalls echoed up and down the corridors, falling into rhythm with one another like the hollow beat of a drum. 

When they reached the doors of Philippe’s rooms, he let Chevalier in ahead of him. As Chevalier passed him, he caught a glimpse of his face, stubbornly terse against the tide of emotion barely concealed behind his eyes. 

  When the door fell shut behind them, the silence roared even louder. 

Chevalier went to the window to look down at the courtyard, where a carriage was being prepared. A servant loaded the bags into the carriage while LaFayette stood by, waiting for his departure from the Palais-Royale. 

Philippe came to stand behind him, and put his hands on Chevalier’s waist. 

“When you wake up tomorrow, he will be long gone.” He murmured, nestling his chin against Chevalier’s shoulder. 

“Will he?” Chevalier whispered, his voice trembling. “Perhaps from here, but not from my mind.” 

“You said you would forget his face.” 

“Yes, but how can I?” 

Philippe slipped his arms around Chevalier’s waist, and pulled him into a taut embrace. 

“Sometimes,” He whispered, “there isn’t forgetting; there is only building walls between yourself and the past.” 

“Believe me, I’ve tried.” Chevalier said, holding Philippe’s arms against him. “They failed me.” 

“Then, I will help you pick it up again.” Philippe said. “Brick by brick.” 

Chevalier uttered a quiet laugh. “I appreciate that, Philippe; I do. But I don’t think you understand. The things he did- … that I-”

Philippe turned him around, and clutched his face between his hands. He pressed his gaze to Chevalier’s shimmering eyes. 

“He’ll never touch you again.” Philippe whispered, vehemently. “It is me now, love; only me.” 

Chevalier sank willingly into Philippe’s embrace. His mouth tasted salty with tears as Philippe kissed him, pressing his devotion through the act. He imagined he could drive away LaFayette’s ghost with his voice alone, but in this moment, this wordless touch, rife with desperate passion, would have to do. 

When he drew back, Chevalier’s eyes were pressed shut against the world. Philippe stroked his cheek, smoothing away the tear creeping from the corner of his eye. 

“Is there nothing I can do to make you forget?” He sighed. 

Chevalier’s eyelids fluttered open, hazily meeting Philippe’s fierce gaze. He uttered a small laugh, hitched with tears. “I don’t know. But we can try.” 

 

~

 

Far below them, LaFayette cast one last, bitter glance up at the palace facade before climbing into his carriage. The gold-plated furnishings and silk cushions represented his enormous wealth, but in this moment, he felt profoundly poor. The emptiness in his chest only swelled as the carriage pulled away, taking him forever from Lorraine. 

 

~

 

Chevalier judged it would take Louis and his people less than a day to discover the true reason for LaFayette’s disappearance. Despite what Philippe had paid the Musketeers, he had no doubt that, as loyal subjects to the King, they would confess the whole story of the duel given the proper encouragement. 

Philippe had promised to protect him, and Chevalier believed he would do his best; but none are sheltered from the king’s wrath, not even a prince. In the last few weeks, he had given himself over to such dour ruminations that all of the possible scenarios he could think of in which he was thrown from the palace by an enraged Louis could hardly have brought his mood lower. Instead, he thrust himself into Philippe’s suggestion that they try their best to rid LaFayette of their minds, and enjoy one another’s company at present. 

When they woke the morning after the duel, Philippe bounded out of bed with the announcement that they would throw a party with all their friends. The better part of the morning was spent running about the palace inviting everyone they liked, and ordering the servants to scrape together what furnishings they could on short notice. 

By mid-afternoon, Philippe’s rooms were teeming with semi-naked men and women, the air perfumed with intoxicated breath and the scent of sweaty, collaborating bodies. Philippe had brought in the musicians to back up the laughter and idle conversation with jovial tunes. 

They danced, gambled, ate desserts, and drank wine until they were too full to eat anymore, and too drunk to stay on their feet. The fire of the party burned quick and short like a candle lit at both ends, and it was only dinnertime when the guests began to drift out of the room. 

As the last of the stragglers departed, Philippe roused Chevalier from where he languished in their bed. 

“Come, dance with me.” He said, reeling Chevalier to him by his arm. 

The quartet of stringed instruments played a slow tune in the corner, offering a gradual tempo their two drunken bodies could follow. 

Chevalier wrapped his arms around Philippe’s neck as they swayed in the center of the room. 

“This isn’t the music they play at parties.” He murmured. 

“No, this is music just for us.” Philippe said. 

He planted a soft, wet kiss on Chevalier’s mouth, and hummed in quiet satisfaction. His palms clasped Chevalier’s bare hips, leading them in a  slow, gyrating dance against his own. 

Chevalier broke the kiss to meet Philippe’s hazy gaze. He wasn’t quite drunk enough to forget the world around them, or to ignore the truth pressing just outside this little cocoon of bliss. 

“It’s about time, isn’t it?” He asked, pressing his forehead to Philippe’s. 

“For what?” 

“For them to realize the truth.” Chevalier said. He glanced at the closed door of the bedroom, the last barrier between them and what was to come. “For them to come here and take you away from me.” 

“No one is taking you away from me.” Philippe said, clutching his cheek. He pressed his mouth over Chevalier’s protests, kissing him until he fell silent. He drew back to look into Chevalier’s eyes. “Now, quiet yourself, and dance with me. We have as long as we like now.” 

Philippe fingers curled around his hips, drawing him closer. Laying his head against Chevalier’s shoulder, he hummed quietly with the stirring melody of the violins. 

“Do you promise?” Chevalier asked. He turned his face into Philippe’s hair, drawing in the scent of his soap and skin. 

“Yes.” Philippe said, his voice muffled in Chevalier’s skin. “Forever.” 

Chevalier nodded, swallowing back the emotion that swelled hard against the back of his throat. 

“I will hold you to that.” He said, stroking Philippe’s cheek. “I don’t want my life without you, Philippe.” 

Lifting his head, Philippe paused his swaying motion as Chevalier’s statement sunk in past the wine. He sobered, his eyelids blinking away the glossy glaze of abandon. 

“I came so close to losing you. I never want to come that close again, but I fear what the King will do when he discovers that I am the reason for LaFayette’s departure.” Chevalier said, lowering his head. 

Philippe clutched his cheeks, bringing his gaze up from the floor. “I will not let it happen. You have nothing to fear … You are free now.” 

Chevalier blinked against the emotion that was quick to rise in the back of his throat; yet this time, he welcomed it, for these were tears of joy rather than sorrow, the grip of hope in his chest rather than dread. He had lived in fear of reprisal from LaFayette so long that he’d nearly forgotten an existence without it; even now, with the threat of the King’s wrath, he felt the weight of those shackles melting away. The future opened up before him like a blossoming flower with Philippe, his mignonnet, at its center. 

“Free.” He whispered, pulling Philippe closer. “Yes, I do feel free.” 

A slow smile spread across Philippe’s mouth as Chevalier stroked his cheek, drawing him in for a deep slow kiss. He tasted of freedom, of victory, of a future ripe for the taking. They could have it all, if it weren’t for Louis; but none of that mattered in this present moment.  

Philippe drew back, breathing heavily. Casting a sharp glance at the musicians, he waved a dismissive hand. “Leave us.” 

Chevalier clung to Philippe’s bright, eager gaze as the musicians gathered up their instruments and scurried for the door. 

“I want you to fuck me.” Philippe whispered, pressing his naked body flush against Chevalier’s. 

Chevalier moaned as Philippe’s mouth closed over his own, sealing the request with his kiss and the pulse of his cock awakening against Chevalier’s own stirring groin. Grasping Philippe’s hips, Chevalier pulled him around to seat him on the edge of the bed. Philippe's knees opened to his nudging, and Chevalier slipped between them, palming Philippe’s cock. 

Philippe’s held fell back as moan slipped from his mouth. His eyes slipped open to capture Chevalier’s, begging with silent need. 

Chevalier kissed him once more, firmly and resolutely on the mouth before withdrawing to fetch the vial of oil from the nightstand. His cock, already pulsing toward full erection, had thoroughly overtaken his despairing thoughts in a matter of moments. He was set to let his mind and body slip away into abandon when the sound of the bedroom door swinging open interrupted their hasty tumble toward the sheets. 

Bontemps entered, flanked on either side by Philippe’s guards. They had not protested his entry, and Chevalier knew why before the King’s valet even spoke. 

“The King requests your presence.” He said, his gaze hardly faltering at the sight of the two of them flushed and ready for intercourse. “Both of you.” 

Philippe released a sigh. “Very well.” 

Bontemps lingered in the doorway as Philippe rose from the bed to gather his discarded clothing. Scowling, he waved a hand at the valet. “You can go now. We will come as quickly as we can.” 

Bontemps ducked his head, and backed out of the room. The guards pulled the doors shut, leaving Philippe and Chevalier in the stifled silence of shattered peace. 

“Well, I had hoped to fuck you one last time before the King banished me.” Chevalier said, tugging his trousers on. 

“He’s not going to banish you.” Philippe said, “He’s my brother. I know him, and he wouldn’t hurt me like that.” 

“No? I imagine he’s willing to hurt someone for this.” 

Philippe tugged his shirt over his head, and crossed the room to clasp Chevalier’s hands in his own. 

“Whatever punishment Louis intends to give us, I promise you it’s nothing we can’t live through.” 

Chevalier nodded, and drew in a deep breath. “Very well. Best to get it over with, yes?” 

“Right.” 

They finished dressing in silence. Philippe led them to the door, and knocked for the guard to open it. 

Bontemps waited for them in the corridor, his expression cut from stone. Chevalier tried to parse a clue of what was to come from his gaze, but his face was loyally unreadable. 

He motioned for them to follow, and strode off down the hall.

Philippe reached over to squeeze Chevalier’s hand as they walked several feet behind Bontemps. The assuring grasp did little ease the nausea roiling through his belly. 

Philippe did not fear the King because he was his brother, but Chevalier knew he was little more than a pesky nuisance in Louis’ mind. Not only was he lacking in the qualities Louis considered becoming of nobleman, he was also playing favorite to the king’s brother. Had he been a woman, perhaps Louis would not have cared, but he would never respect Philippe’s desire for male company. If he discarded Chevalier from the palace, Chevalier had little doubt that Louis would enjoy it thoroughly, and not give a damn for his brother’s hurt feelings. 

As they reached the king’s council chambers, Chevalier drew in a deep breath against the sick knot lodging itself deep in his stomach. He had to be prepared for whatever punishment it was that Louis thought suited this misdeed, but he could not muster his courage. Even after all the pain LaFayette had wrought, none could be worse than the idea that he and Philippe could be separated forever.  

The doors of the council chamber swung open, and Philippe walked in ahead of him. Lifting his chin, Chevalier followed him. 

Louis was seated at the head of the table, appearing neither flustered nor angry. He sipped a glass of wine with a serene expression that veiled the determination in his eyes. Chevalier saw his fate unraveling there, beyond the deep blue and the relaxed set of his mouth. 

His gaze drifted away from the king to see the Princess Henriette had also been invited to the meeting. Chevalier frowned at her presence. What business did the king’s mistress have with matters of the state? 

“Brother.” Louis said, rising from his chair. “Lorraine. Good of you to come.” 

“You ordered us here.” Philippe said, “For what purpose?”

“I believe you already know the purpose.” Louis replied, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

Philippe glanced at Chevalier, and back at Louis. He stayed silent as Louis paced from behind the table, his hands clasped behind his back. 

“The Vicomte de LaFayette vacated his rooms early this morning.” Louis said, “He left no note or message indicating when he would return. It’s come to my attention that, for reasons beyond my control, he’s chosen not to return at all.” 

Philippe’s chin lifted a notch as Louis came to stand in front of him, his discerning gaze searching Philippe’s rigid expression. 

“I think you know something of this, brother.” Louis said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. 

“I came to you with my concerns.” Philippe said, “You did not listen. I took matters into my own hands.” 

Louis’ gaze lowered. A grimace of irritation twitched across his mouth. 

“For him?” He asked, slowly raising a finger to point at Chevalier. “For him you destroyed any possibility of a charter with India?” 

“Yes, and I would gladly do it again.” 

Louis’ outstretched hand abruptly changed course through the air, arching up to slap Philippe across the cheek. 

A gasp lurched at the back of Chevalier’s throat as the crack of flesh echoed through the air. He curled his hands into fists, holding himself back from leaping forward to throw himself in front of the blow. 

“Louis!” Henriette admonished, rising from her chair at the table. 

“Silence.” Louis said, spinning to jab his finger at her. “I brought you here for a reason.” 

Henriette’s head lowered as she sank back to her chair. 

Philippe rubbed at his stinging cheek before letting his hand drop back to his side in a fist. “Then state your reasons.” He said.

“You are out of control.” Louis said, casting him a glare of disdain. “You have gone too far this time. I have let your dalliances go on unobstructed until now, but they have crossed the line into political affairs. Do you understand what you have cost me?” 

“I understand.” Philippe said, “And I do not care. Not when the man who could deliver India - or anyone else - is a monstrous fiend intent on destroying someone I deeply care for.” 

Louis’ jaw clenched as an angry flush crept up his throat and cheeks. Shaking his head, he scoffed a sound of incredulity. 

“You are a son of France first.” He said, stabbing his finger at Philippe’s chest.  “You are a member of nobility, of royalty! You must conduct yourself better than this. Your first duty should be to the crown, not to your ill-reputed lover.” 

“Then punish me if you must; but do not subject me to this self-righteous palaver!” Philippe retorted. 

Drawing in a deep breath, Louis paced along the length of the table until he reached his chair. Bracing his hands on the back of it, he directed his gaze coolly back to Philippe. 

“Yes, I did bring you here for a reason.” He said, “To do your duty, as you are required.” 

“How so?” 

Louis swept his hand toward Henriette. “I wish for the two of you to marry.” 

Philippe and Henriette stared at one another in shocked silence, but behind them, Chevalier heard the crack of fate like thunder, the sound of the world shifting to an unrecognizable tapestry around him.

 Somehow, despite Philippe’s position as prince, he had never thought of the threat of marriage wedging itself into their relationship. It had never occurred to him that where there had once been just the two of them, there might always have to be a third, a silent, bitter spectator to their forbidden affections. He’d never thought of Philippe truly bedding a woman, of that woman bearing children, of Philippe being a father … of Philippe being a husband. It all seemed ridiculously absurd when paired with the man he knew, as if they were all expected to leap up onto a stage to perform a piece of theater, both a tragedy and a comedy. And yet, this was reality and not a fiction; and perhaps the fiction had been his loyalty to their love all along, his disillusionment from the truth that it could never be only them - not when Philippe was the prince, and Louis the King. 

Chevalier startled from the grip of shock when Philippe’s voice slashed through the silence. 

“Marry?” 

“Yes.” Louis said. 

Philippe scoffed, his gaze shifting between Louis and Henriette. “It is you she loves.” 

“She loves you too, brother.” Louis said, “Haven’t we all been close since childhood?” 

He circled the table to stand behind Henriette, his hand gently touching her back. Henriette glanced up at him, struggling to maintain a tranquil expression. 

“Isn’t that right, Henriette?” Louis said. 

“Yes … Louis.” She said, her voice paper-thin as if her breath had been siphoned from her lungs with the declaration of marriage. 

“She will make you a fine wife.” Louis said. He patted Henriette’s shoulder, and bent to murmur in her ear. “You may go now.”

Rising from her chair, Henriette walked past Philippe and Chevalier on her way to the door. Their gazes connected, and for a moment, Chevalier felt a flare of jealous rage towards her he had never felt before. She had only ever been a kind and gentle soul in his view, but in this moment, he wanted to lash out. He wanted to destroy the very thought of her touching Philippe. 

As the door fell shut behind her, Philippe turned his gaze back to Louis. 

“This is how you punish me?” He whispered, “By marrying me to your mistress? This is cruel, even for you.” 

“Cruel?” Louis echoed, his brows rising. “I find it generous after what you’ve done.” 

“You torture not only me but Henriette as well. It is a lifetime of punishment for one act.” 

“I don’t mean to punish you.” Louis said, crossing the room back to where Philippe stood. “I mean to corral you. To remind you of your duty. This day was coming whether you like it not, whether this entire fiasco with the Vicomte had happened or not. As for Henriette, she understands what is expected of her, an indelible fact that you too should learn." 

“You could have wed me to a stranger.” Philippe said, “It would have been easier to stomach.” 

“Perhaps.” Louis said, “Perhaps not. Now go. You have a wedding to prepare for.” 

Philippe held his gaze for a moment before turning to leave. As he strode to the door, Louis’ gaze landed on Chevalier. 

“And what of me, your Majesty?” Chevalier asked, ducking his head. 

“You?” Louis said, his mouth curling in disgust. “What of you?” 

Chevalier let out a raspy breath, his dread coming to a cold halt. Realization washed over him. There would be no dramatic ejection from the palace, no valiant argument in his favor by Philippe. This punishment, wrapped up in duty and expectations, was the cruelest thing Louis could have done - and the knowledge of it shown in his eyes with satisfaction that curdled Chevalier’s blood. 

Chevalier’s gaze swung to Philippe, who lingered by the door. Philippe’s mouth compressed to a thin, unhappy line as he nodded for Chevalier to follow him. His eyes, soft and dismal, turned to focus on the corridor ahead. The resignation in that faint glance encouraged the despair surging through Chevalier’s chest. 

He rushed to follow Philippe into the corridor, where the sound of the council chamber door thudding shut echoed with finality. Philippe’s hasty footsteps slowed to a kind of wounded stagger, and finally ceased. As he lowered his head, Chevalier heard him draw in a quivering breath. 

Chevalier cleared his throat, eager to lift the depressing shadow that had suddenly crashed down upon their shoulders. 

“Well, I hope you’re as relieved as I am that you didn’t have to beg for my life.” He said, mustering a scarce chuckle. 

“This is no laughing matter.” Philippe said, casting a sharp glare over his shoulder. 

“No, of course not.” 

“It isn’t you who has to wed a woman.”

“And you think it’s any easier for me? The thought of having to share you with someone else?”

Philippe shook his head. “I understand why Louis would do this to me, but not to her. I’ve known her since I was a child; how am I to be her husband, when I know I cannot be true?” 

“You’re thinking of her feelings right now?” Chevalier scoffed, “It seems to me that she’s taken the long end of the stick, and you the short one. She’s taking double servings. She gets both you and the King.” 

“You think that’s what she wants?” Philippe demanded, whirling around to glare into Chevalier’s eyes. “Do you think it’s what either of us want?” 

Chevalier took a faltering step back. Philippe’s anger struck him like a physical blow to the face, and he suddenly found it difficult to recall the future for them he’d envisioned less than an hour ago. 

Philippe’s gaze dropped to the floor. He pressed a hand to his forehead, and released a weary sigh. 

“God, I know.” He whispered. “I know it’s not what you wanted either.” 

Chevalier nodded, swallowing against the lump in the back of his throat. “I should have known this day would come. It isn’t your fault.” 

Philippe’s trembling fingers reached out to grasp Chevalier’s. He tugged him closer, and slowly lifted his gaze from the floor. 

“You’ll stay with me?” He asked. 

“That was never a question.” Chevalier whispered. 

Philippe clutched his cheek, and pulled him in to plant a kiss on his forehead. “Good. I couldn’t bear it if you left me.” 

“I told you, mignonnet; I don’t want my life without you.” 

“Even through marriage? And the children I’m expected to produce?” 

Chevalier hesitated at the thought of Philippe sleeping with someone else, a woman no less, but even such a nauseating image could not deter what he felt so strongly for him. 

“Yes.” Chevalier said, cradling Philippe’s cheek in his palm. He pressed an ardent kiss to Philippe’s mouth, whispering a vow between the fervent caresses. “Forever.” 


	11. Epilogue: The Chateau

**3 months later**

 

The sultry summer sun hung high over the River Seine, blazing pale yellow from a sky of unobstructed blue. The stone pavilion and terraces of the chateau at Saint-Cloud all but baked beneath its glow, the fresh paint and trims gleaming with resplendent beauty in the light. The new grande cascade gurgled with lively fountains that surged downward to meet with the river. Though the construction of the additional rooms had been expedited, no detail had been missed, each brick laid with thought and care. 

The final product mirrored Philippe’s numerous drawings almost perfectly. As the carriage drew closer to their new home, Chevalier grew eager to see whether the interior was as opulent as the exterior finishings. 

“Look at her.” He said, leaning against the carriage window. “She’s beautiful, Philippe.” 

“Thank you.” Philippe said, reaching over to squeeze his hand. “You are going to absolutely love the interiors.” 

“I know I will since it is you who dreamed them into existence.” Chevalier replied, turning his gaze from the chateau to give Philippe a kiss. 

Across the carriage from them, Henriette averted her gaze out the window. It was her method to remain as silent and innocent to their affections as possible. If Chevalier hadn’t been so bothered by the situation, he may have pitied her. She had faced her fate with quiet grace that he himself may not have managed in her position. He wondered how she might react now that Philippe was taking her away from her lover. Saint-Cloud was not far from Paris, but it was just far enough that routine visits from the King could raise suspicions. 

The carriage pulled to a stop in front of the chateau, and the valet climbed down to open the door. 

Chevalier stepped down from the carriage, and surveyed the neatly trimmed grounds. There wasn’t a peach blossom in sight. 

Philippe helped Henriette down from the carriage, and extended his other arm to Chevalier. The three of them walked toward the chateau while the servants shuffled behind under the weight of their luggage. 

The valet darted ahead to pull the front door open. They crossed the threshold together into an open foyer. Windows lined the front of the house, allowing in radiant sunlight that illuminated the somber, gray pallor of the floor. 

Chevalier scanned the room with bated breath. The chateau was not as he had recalled. Philippe had changed nearly every detail of the interior, down to the window frames. The room held the distilled peace of a chapel, as if every square inch of stone, metal, and fabric had been infused with Philippe’s good intentions for this new home. 

“It’s amazing.” Henriette said. 

“Thank you.” Philippe replied, drawing in a deep breath. “I can’t believe it’s finally real.” 

Chevalier beamed at him. “You’re a miracle worker, mignonnet.” 

Philippe’s eyes brightened, and a smile tugged at his mouth. He leaned in to accept Chevalier’s kiss, his arm sliding free of Henriette’s. The princess diverted her gaze to the artwork on the walls once more as the two of them embraced in a deep kiss of slow-burning passion. 

When Philippe’s mouth broke away, Chevalier struggled to a draw in a proper breath. Philippe’s gaze captured his own, focusing with scouring intensity that turned him inside out. He had always felt naked beneath that gaze, but today, in this moment, on the grounds of what had once been the start of a terrible chasm between them, the shared gaze felt different. More powerful. Deeper, as if Philippe could see into him, all the way down to the bottom. 

He drew in a shuddering breath as Philippe’s thumb caressed his cheek. 

“This is a new start.” Philippe whispered. 

“A clean slate?” 

“I want it to be.” Philippe replied, casting a glance at Henriette. 

His wife had continued her meandering pace down the corridor, viewing each painting on the wall with concentrated dedication. She was out of earshot, though her presence lingered faintly at their backs. 

“I need you to get along.” Philippe said, earnestly, clutching Chevalier’s cheek. “Can you do that for me?” 

Chevalier averted his gaze from Philippe’s before he could lie outright. A fresh start was meant to bring new possibilities of joy, but beneath their rekindled passion lay a dark shadow that could not be dispersed by empty promises. 

“Please.” Philippe said, urging Chevalier’s eyes up from the floor. “You know I would make things different if I could.” 

“I know.” 

“I’m trying. You have to try … to be good to her, to be understanding, to see that she’s just as miserable as we are.” 

“She’s the King’s mistress.” Chevalier said, casting aside his attempt to hide his disdain. “But she’s not only that, is she, Philippe? She is a tool - a tool that Louis is using to drive a wedge between us.” 

“Why would he do that?” Philippe sighed. 

“Because, he hates me. And he was never able to properly punish me for what happened with … with-”

Philippe’s grasp fell away from Chevalier’s face as he turned away. 

“With LaFayette.” Philippe said. 

The name echoed quietly through the cavernous room, leaping from wall to wall with resounding efficiency. 

Chevalier pressed his eyes shut against the sound of it, willing away the memories that leapt instantaneously to life with those few syllables. 

“Yes.” He said, the word grinding past his clenched jaw. 

“You promised me.” 

“I promised to stay. Not to  _ like  _ her.” 

“I’m not asking you to like her. I’m asking you to have some empathy for her situation. For you to be civil.” 

Chevalier drew in a deep breath, and tossed his hair over his shoulder. “Very well. If you insist, I will try.” 

Philippe nodded, his brows furrowing dubiously. “Thank you.” 

A great thud from across the foyer drew their attention from one another to the two servants who were struggling with a heavy trunk full of clothing. One slender boy had dropped his end of the trunk, resulting in the lid falling open and spilling silk garments across the floor. 

Philippe let out an irritated sigh. “Must they always be shown exactly what to do?” 

He paused to drop a hasty kiss on Chevalier’s cheek before starting across the foyer toward the two servants. 

“Stay here.” He said, “I want to give you a grand tour once we’re alone.” 

“A tour that ends at the bedroom, I hope.” Chevalier called after him. 

As Philippe chastised the clumsy young servant, Chevalier’s gaze wandered from the foyer to the long hall Henriette had wandered down. She stood at the end of the corridor, inspecting a portrait of Louis and Philippe as children. 

Chevalier cast a hasty glance back across the foyer to see that Philippe was entirely engaged in the tongue-lashing of the domestics. Lifting his chin, he arranged a cool exterior, and strode down the hall to where Henriette stood. 

Her gaze lingered fondly on the portrait, but quickly shifted to Chevalier with a glaze of mistrust when he approached. 

“How was Chateau de Fontainebleau?” Chevalier asked, maintaining a casual tone. 

He’d been forced to stay behind at Palais-Royale for the duration of the honeymoon at Fontainebleau, a stretch of days which had been both long and arduous. He’d thought of nothing but Philippe and Henriette sharing the same bed, but it came as no surprise - and a relief - when he heard that Louis had visited the newlyweds at the chateau. 

The wide-eyed look of barely concealed guilt that now registered on Henriette’s face at his remark confirmed his suspicions, and vindicated his jealous machinations. 

“It is beautiful there in the summer.” Henriette said, managing a stiff smile. 

“The king must think so too.”

Henriette’s gaze darted away from his as a flush darkened her cheeks. “You speak out of turn, Chevalier.” 

“Perhaps, but this is Saint-Cloud, not the Palais-Royale. Philippe is the master of this house.” 

“He may grant your every wish, but I am his wife.” 

“Yes, sadly.” Chevalier said, expelling a dramatic sigh. “Speaking of which … I wonder, is the moon in your favor?” 

Henriette’s eyes snapped to him with frothing indignance. “I beg your pardon?” 

“I do hope the honeymoon was successful, outside of the King’s visit.” Chevalier said, casting her a divisive gaze. “I only say so because it is the wish of every person at court that they may soon congratulate you on conceiving an heir for our beloved Duc D’Orleans; and I, of course, would be among them.” 

Henriette eyes held his as terse silence settled between them. The question hung in the air with the weight of a guillotine. The answer held both pain and relief, and for a moment, he wondered why he’d asked at all. If she said yes, he must bear the torture of watching her stomach swell with Philippe’s seed; if she said no, he must endure the following months in which they were forced to share a bed until the union was consummated with pregnancy. 

Henriette’s whispered reply shattered the silence, giving him neither. 

“Do I frighten you?” She asked, “If you are so convinced of his love for you, then I would not.” 

Chevalier scoffed a dismissive sound. “He does love me.” 

Henriette shifted her gaze to the portrait above them, where Louis’ and Philippe’s youthful faces shown with the innocence of childhood. 

“I have lived here since I was a child.” Henriette said. “I have known Philippe and the King since I was a little girl. We used to run and play in the forest together, before we knew what duty would command of us. Philippe and I understand the burden of that duty. You cannot.” 

“I understand perfectly well.” Chevalier said, anger rising up hot in his chest. “But, I am not one to simply lie down and be tread upon because duty commands it. It takes courage to go against what is expected of you, and not to conform to it. You couldn’t imagine the things I have done to be here, to have him … to love him.” 

The word echoed quietly down the corridor, a fully gestated thought before it had even breached his lips.  _ Love.  _ Henriette did not frighten him, but perhaps that realization did. The last time he’d spoken it, he’d been utterly deceived, his devotion dashed to pieces on the rocks like a ship rejected by the raging sea. 

Chevalier cleared his throat, thrusting the rasp of emotion far from his chest. 

“Let us make ourselves clear.” He said, clasping his hands tightly behind his back. “You are his wife, in name only. It is I who will share his bed each night, and you who will have him only when the time is right; and when you have conceived, not at all. Those are my terms.” 

“Terms?” Henriette echoed. 

“Yes, or else I will make sure of it that the whole world knows you are the King’s whore. I know just how quickly a rumor can spread from the salon to the streets.” 

Henriette stared at him in shocked silence, her mouth quivering with a tremulous breath. Swallowing hard, she seemed to gather her nerve to offer a retort, but the clipped ring of shoe heels down the corridor interrupted their privacy. 

“There you are.” Philippe said, “I told you to stay put.” 

“Henriette and I were just admiring the paintings.” Chevalier said, slathering a saccharine smile on his mouth. “You do have a keen eye for art, darling.” 

Philippe’s arm slipped around his waist, and Chevalier leaned into it. Henriette’s gaze ducked his pointed glare. 

“Louis insisted I take this one.” Philippe said, regarding the portrait of his younger self with a conflicted gaze. “Now he always has an eye on my life.” 

“He may have more eyes here than you know.” Chevalier said, keeping his gaze fixed on Henriette. 

“Come,” Philippe said, oblivious to, or rather ignoring, the tension rippling between his wife and his lover. “I said I would give you the grand tour.” 

Chevalier bowed his head at Henriette. “Good day, madame.” 

Philippe tugged him down the hall, leaving Henriette below the portrait. 

“What did you say to her?” He said, tersely. “Her pallor was that of a ghost.” 

“I said nothing.” Chevalier replied, “Perhaps she is feeling unwell from the long journey.”

Philippe cut him a dubious gaze. “Have you already forgotten what I asked of you?” 

“No, migonnet. And I’m doing the best I can.” 

Philippe’s stride came to a halt, bringing Chevalier jolting against him. 

“You know, you should thank your lucky stars that this arrangement is all the punishment you got.” Philippe said, “Louis could have done much worse to you.” 

“But he did not.” Chevalier said, stroking the tense curve of Philippe’s jaw. 

He tugged Philippe’s chin forward to press a firm kiss to his mouth. When their mouths broke apart, Philippe regarded him with a pliant gaze of desire. 

“Let’s let bygones be bygones.” Chevalier whispered, sliding his palm down Philippe’s spine to grasp his backside. “The whole world is ahead of us, my love.” 

“In spite of my marriage?” 

“A petty annoyance.”

Chevalier slipped his other hand between them to locate Philippe’s crotch through the heavy layers of fabric. Philippe’s drew in a sharp breath, his cheeks blushing hot with need. Beneath the dense weight of silk, his cock sprang to life against Chevalier’s grip. 

“I know who it is your prick grows hard for.” Chevalier whispered, his breath spilling hot across Philippe’s ear. “I can feel it now, in the grasp of my hand.” 

Philippe’s pursed mouth gave forth a small, tortured whimper as the heel of Chevalier’s palm rubbed firmly against the burgeoning erection trapped by his breeches. He clutched that the front of Chevalier’s jacket, holding himself steady against the wave of need pummeling him. 

“What of the grand tour?” He whispered, the words broken by pleasure. 

“Later.” Chevalier said, “Right now, the only tour I want is of the bedroom.” 

Philippe nodded. “Come with me.” 

Chevalier released him, and Philippe took a staggered step backwards. A devious smile grew on his mouth. Grabbing Chevalier's hands, he led them across the foyer, and down the corridor. The room at the end of the hall stood open, inviting them inside. 

The air had recently been perfumed with the scent of lilacs, and the windows stood open to allow in the summer breeze. The view opened up to the rows upon rows of fountains that meandered down toward the river. The lush view held as much possibility as the night Philippe had decided to buy the chateau. 

Chevalier’s insecurity fled with the warm rush of the breeze.  The moment the doors swung shut behind them, he tackled Philippe to the bed, smothering him with a hungry kiss. They tore feverishly at one another’s clothing, stripping away the fabric so that naked flesh could join. When their bare skin met, on fire with need, Chevalier slid downward to devote the slick press of his mouth to Philippe’s swollen cock. 

The taste of him filled Chevalier’s mouth, the dense flavor of aroused flesh tapping into primal senses. He sucked down on Philippe’s cock, impressing this moment into memory, into a room in his mind where only good things resided. 

Before he could consciously do it, his heart promised his mind that he wouldn’t think of LaFayette any longer. The oldest wounds are the deepest, but with time, they can fade; with concentrated effort they can all but disappear, a little box of darkness stuffed into the farthest corner of his mind. Rene was but a memory now, a very bad memory, but more a loose collection of dismal pangs of torment rather than a living, breathing soul. He would put it away, and when he felt the lance of the past cutting free past its bindings, he would remind himself that only this moment was real. Philippe, Saint-Cloud, the sunlight beaming warmly in at them, and the absolute joy he felt in the arms of his beloved. They were real, and they were powerful. The past, a Vicomte, and King had not been able to sever what was between them, and neither would a marriage. Whatever the future held, could it be worse than what had already happened?  _ No.   _ He thought.  _ We are here; we are together, come what may.  _

 

~the end~

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :)
> 
> I'm [duc-orleans](https://duc-orleans.tumblr.com//) on Tumblr!


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